


The Seven Temptations of Aziraphale

by Duinemerwen



Series: Denial is a River in Egypt [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 14th Century, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Comedy, Con Artists, Crowley Hates the 14th Century (Good Omens), Cults, Denial of Feelings, Disguise, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gambling, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Kidnapping, M/M, Medieval Medicine, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Slash, Prophecy, References to Aztec Religion & Lore, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn, denial is a river in egypt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 80,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duinemerwen/pseuds/Duinemerwen
Summary: Mexico, 1379 A.D.: While taking a well-deserved holiday, Crowley makes a bet with a rival demon as to who can tempt Aziraphale to commit more of the seven cardinal sins. Best four out of seven wins. Loser leaves Earth forever.But winning's not as easy as it looks. Not when there are some fourteenth-century sins that even a demon can’t outrun...Standalone, canon-compliant story featuring friendship and humour. Complete.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Denial is a River in Egypt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1444516
Comments: 264
Kudos: 265
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	1. The Hard Sell

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote an interquel. This story is technically part of a series but you can enjoy it without having read the other installments. It's a friendship-focussed story, but I'm a shipper at heart, so I can't promise a bit of romance won't sneak in. 
> 
> The rough draft is complete. My goal is to update chapters weekly as they get finalized. 
> 
> Much thanks to SilchasRuin and GraphiteGirl for betaing!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a proposition.

“Have you ever heard of the City of Gold, your majesty?” said Crowley. 

“Can’t say I have,” said the king. He sat on a stone throne, carved with quarreling gods and padded with red cushions. A blue cotton mantle was draped around his shoulders, and black feathers sprang from his golden crown, giving him the look of a jungle bird. The court was open to the sky, flanked with stone columns and shady porticos. The courtiers - lords and ladies and merchants of any appreciable social status - fluttered about in the sunlight. 

“Imagine, if you will, a city, with ivory spires and glass towers,” said Crowley. “Gardens with every tree and flower and fruit imaginable. Streets where scholars and artists rub shoulders with princes and priests. Dancers clad in silk, and warriors in silver -” 

“Where does the gold come in?” interrupted the king. 

“And gold, heavy in the pockets of every man, woman, and child,” said Crowley, annoyed that he’d just skipped half his pre-rehearsed patter. It didn’t matter. From the moment he’d mentioned _gold_ , he’d had the entire court wrapped around his little finger. “Gold on the brow of every lord and lady. Golden fields of grain. Caravans bursting with gold coin.” 

“I’ve never heard of such a city,” said the king. “They’ve sent no emissaries, nor any traders to Tenochtitlan.” 

“Well, it’s quite far away,” said Crowley. “And quite hard to find, if you don’t know where to look.” 

“And I take it you do know where to look,” said the king, leaning forward in his chair. “Then tell me: have you seen this city with your own eyes? Have you seen the dancers in silk, or the ivory spires, or the gardens?” 

Technically, the answers were _no_ , _yes_ , _yes_ , and _yes_. Crowley had pulled the details of the City of Gold from the markets of Marrakesh, the cathedrals of Reims, and the parks of Constantinople. He had no idea if any of them were still intact. Last he’d been in Europe, he’d been fleeing Downstairs from the back door in Rome, with the pitchforks and torches of a peasant mob at his heels. 

_Too many popes_ , thought Crowley. It was the popes’ fault. The squabbling between Clement and Urban had been the last straw. Why reign over the rubble of Avignon or the fires of Rome, when you could just pack up and holiday in Tenochtitlan? Things were far simpler in Mexico. There were no popes here. 

_And no beacons._

The king was still waiting expectantly for an answer. So Crowley gave him one. “I have seen those things,” he affirmed. “I stumbled upon the city while seeking shelter from a storm, in the mountains.” 

“Tell me where this city is, then, and I shall send an emissary to greet them, so that they may join our alliance,” continued the king. 

That’d be Aziraphale’s influence. The talk of _alliance_ and _emissaries_. Crowley had hardly secured himself housing in Tenochtitlan and a refreshing glass of pulque, when the angel had arrived on the shores of Lake Texcoco on a leaky dinghy, laden with two crates of various books, scrolls, and folios. 

“What’re you doing here?” he’d said, after he’d cleared the pulque from his airways. 

“Lovely to see you too, Crowley,” replied Aziraphale, beaming with the immense pride of having completed a transatlantic journey on little better than a bundle of reeds lashed together.

“The lake doesn’t even connect to the ocean.” 

“It doesn’t?” said Aziraphale, puzzled. “Well, nevermind geography. Thought I might join you on holiday.” 

But if Aziraphale was truly on _holiday_ , then Crowley would eat his own sandals. He barely saw the angel these days, though they were, for once, living in the same city. Aziraphale alternated between providing the king his dubious brand of political advisorship, dabbling in local medicine, and shutting himself up in a single-room shack, ostensibly performing research. Crowley had no idea if Aziraphale’s activities were the result of a persistent sense of duty, or for entertainment purposes. He suspected, with no small amount of dread, that all that do-goodery was what constituted “fun” in the angel’s books. 

Crowley, on the other hand, had opted to travel light, bringing nothing but himself to Tenochtitlan. He was off the clock. Any business he did at this point was for his own professional development. It was important to stay sharp, after all. Not let oneself go to seed. 

The demon touched his own face, to ensure that his disguise was still in place. “Your majesty, I have here a map to the City of Gold.” Crowley reached under his cloak and opened up a parchment map that he’d doodled last night. It looked a lot like a map of Egypt, except upside down. “All I ask in return is -” he shook his head ruefully. “Nevermind. I wouldn’t want to be a burden to the crown.” He knew perfectly well that the royal coffers spilled over with tribute and taxes. 

“Ask,” said the king. 

“My wife died in childbirth, and I’ve spent my entire life caring for my daughters, so they would find husbands,” began Crowley. “Now I am old. I own no shield or spear, and the chance for a glorious death has passed me by. I seek only a pittance of copper, so that I can provide my daughters with dowries, and equip myself to meet a glorious death in battle.” 

Crowley bowed low and held his breath while the king pondered the offer. He knew that it was a foregone conclusion. What king would deny an old man a chance to die violently and earn an afterlife at the side of Huitzilopochtli, god of war, to wage eternal war against the forces of darkness? Particularly when no old man would have the gall to cross the king. The city had no prisons. Any criminals were stabbed, strangled, or stoned on the spot. There was no place for common confidence artists. 

But Crowley was not a common confidence artist. He was no Nicholas of Verdun. He was a Nicola Pisano. Or better yet, a _Giotto di Bondone_. 

The king raised his hand, and a hush fell over the murmuring court. Hopefully, he’d next order the treasurer to give Crowley a fat purse of copper. 

But the king didn’t make a move to order the treasurer to pay Crowley a fat purse of copper. In fact, the king didn’t move at all. The silence from the courtiers was unbroken, except for the sound of footsteps. Crowley ground his teeth together. If Aziraphale had chosen _this_ moment to take a break from his research, to meddle in Aztec politics, he’d - 

No. The steps were too light and quick to be Aziraphale’s, and the smell of blood and ashes filled his nostrils. 

Crowley stood up abruptly. “On second thought,” he said to the statuelike king, “nevermind about the City of Gold. Ciao.” 

Then the demon stuffed the map back under his cloak, and sprinted towards the back window of the throne room, as fast as his sandaled feet would take him. 

“Your disguise needs work,” said a young woman’s voice. “It’s the aura that gave you away.” 

Crowley froze, one foot out the window, poised to dive several feet into a clump of spiked yucca plants. He rearranged himself into a casual sitting position on the windowsill. “Hello, Daeva,” he said. “I didn’t know you had business with the king today.” He gripped the ledge of the windowsill, partly so that he would stop shaking, and partly so that he would be less inclined to hurl himself out the window mid-conversation. 

Daeva smiled humourlessly at Crowley. Her face was that of a teenage girl, starkly at odds with the grey feathers that sprouted like hair from her head and her shoulders, and unblinking eyes that held neither colour or warmth within them. The grey feathers on her cape rustled in the breeze that crossed the court, but she stood utterly still, with her arms crossed. “Of course you wouldn’t. You only think of yourself,” she said. “I had enough on my plate before you showed up in my city. You and that blessed angel.” She shook her head. “Learn to cover your tracks, won’t you?” 

“If Azi- the angel is such a pain in the ass, why don’t you just run him out of town?” suggested Crowley. He rearranged his cloak nonchalantly, trying to conceal his map beneath. 

“I don’t want to run him out of town. I want him to learn that all his stupid, off-the-books do-goodery is pointless. I want him to remember that the Aztecs are  _ mine _ . I’ve held this region for the last hundred years. And if I want them to wage a thousand pointless wars against each other and sacrifice their prisoners at children’s birthday parties, then they  _ will _ .” 

“Well, no argument from me there,” said Crowley. “Human sacrifice. Sounds lovely. Don’t let me get in your way.” He shifted his weight on the windowsill. The parchment map crinkled. 

“You already did,” said Daeva. “I wouldn’t care if you kept your head down. But instead, you’re selling the king shit like the  _ City of Gold _ .” Her arm swooped in and plucked Crowley’s map out from under his cloak. “What the shit are you playing at?” 

“Professional development?” suggested Crowley. 

“The king can’t wage war against a city that doesn’t exist,” said Daeva. She balled up the map in her hands and incinerated it on the spot. The ashes fell to the tiled floor, and she flexed her empty fingers, as if itching to wrap them around Crowley’s throat. “Why couldn’t you take your holiday somewhere else? Did you forget this was my domain, or did you just not care?” 

“Sorry,” muttered Crowley. 

“I’m sure you are,” said Daeva. “But it doesn’t matter, anyway.” Her aura swelled, until the smell of blood and ashes was thick and choking. “Do you know what your sin is, Crowley?” 

“Naturally, I’m a fan of all seven -” 

“Your sin is Pride _._ I thought you’d learned your lesson twenty years ago,” she said. “But it looks like the lesson didn’t sink in.” Daeva stepped uncomfortably close. “And I’m beginning to think there isn’t enough room here for the both of us,” she said, poking a grey, sharply-pointed fingernail into the other demon’s chest. 

Crowley’s cloak smoked where Daeva’s finger touched it. He grew cold with fear. But Daeva also froze in place like a startled deer. She’d felt it too, then. 

“Oh, watch your step there, Gabriel - Michael - it wouldn’t do to take a tumble at court.” 

“No, it wouldn’t,” said a supremely unimpressed voice. 

Daeva looked torn between ripping Crowley’s heart out, and running for the hills. Her self preservation instincts won out. “This isn’t over,” she hissed. She pulled Crowley out of the windowframe, sending him staggering into a square column, and hurled herself out the window into the garden below. 

The moment Daeva cleared the window, the court resumed its motion. Behind him, the king asked, “Where’s the old man, and who are _you_?” 

Crowley nearly followed suit and dove out the window too, but curiosity overcame him. He pulled his own aura closely around him, and peered around the corner of the column into the throne room. 

Aziraphale stood before the king, looking pleased as pudding in a cream poncho trimmed with matching feathers. Behind him were two figures, one outwardly male, and the other female. But from the strength and coldness of their auras, they could be nothing other than angels. Very high-ranking angels. Cherubim, at the very least. 

“Your majesty, may I introduce the archangels Michael and Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley gaped in horror. What business did Aziraphale have, bringing _archangels_ to Mexico? They were both on _holiday_. Was nothing sacred?

Aziraphale continued his introductions, blithely unaware of the way Crowley had nearly stuffed his fist into his mouth to not cry out. “Michael is the general of the armies,” he said, and the woman-shaped angel inclined her head a fraction of an inch. She was clad in full plate armour. 

“And Gabriel is, er. An ambassador.” The man-shaped angel nodded in turn, wearing a grey puffed-satin tunic and doublet over fine woolen hose. Both archangels looked uncomfortably warm in their European garb. 

“And this is his majesty, King Acamapichtli of Tenochtitlan, first of his name,“ finished Aziraphale proudly. 

“I welcome you to my court,” said the king diplomatically. “The sun shines on the hour of our meeting.” 

“His Majesty recently cemented a treaty with the cities of Texcoco and Tlacopan,” said Aziraphale. “And he’s expanded the weaver’s guild, too. The finest cottons in Mexico come from the looms of Tenochtitlan.” 

Deeply unimpressed expressions remained engraved on the archangels’ faces. “This court smells like demons. Are they still ripping their prisoner’s hearts out?” said Gabriel. 

“Er, yes,” said Aziraphale. “But only on special occasions. You know, it’s considered an honour to die in battle, or at the sacrificial altar -” 

Gabriel shook his head. “Typical,” he said. 

“From which kingdom do you say you hail?” asked the king. 

“The kingdom of God,” said Michael coldly. 

Her response was either lost in the translation, or Aziraphale had performed a minor diplomatic miracle, for the king did not call the guards at the back of the throne room to shank the archangels for their heresy. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, realizing that the archangels would not warm to the king of Tenochtitlan anytime soon, “Time to go! Lots to see.” 

“I think we’ve seen enough,” said Gabriel. He and Michael turned around without a second glance, and strode out of the throne room. The courtiers parted like the sea before them. 

Aziraphale lingered long enough to perform another diplomatic intervention, before rushing after the archangels. “Wait, you haven’t even tried the xocoatl yet -” 

Crowley, still hiding behind the stone column, let out the breath he’d been holding. But the stone remained eerily cold through the leather soles of his sandals. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

The north market was extraordinarily busy in the late morning. Shopkeepers spread their merchandise under rows and rows of tents, or on cloth mats in the open air. A discerning consumer could buy an embroidered cotton mantle a stone’s throw away from reed cages full of live rabbits, before sating their hunger at one of the many little food stalls at the edge of the market. 

The air was already fragrant with smoke and spices. Crowley could smell chiles and allspice and cinnamon toasting, as they sizzled in wide pans across the main square. Soon, the cooks would combine the spices with maize flour. In a few hours, the afternoon meal would be served at the market - maize porridge, spicy with chiles and sweet with honey, perhaps topped with squash or tomatoes or the little crayfish that lived in Lake Texcoco.

Crowley wasn’t hungry, though. He hadn’t eaten in years - but why should he? He hadn’t been hungry in over sixty years. Not since 1315, precisely. 

Instead, he nursed a mug of creamy chicha as he leaned against a portico at the edge of the market, between a basket vendor and a hunter selling deerskins. Crowley barely tasted the maize beer. He would have preferred a bit of _aqua vitae_ , but the Aztecs had not quite discovered the art of distillation as the Europeans had. Perhaps it was time to cut his holiday short and go home. 

He snorted at the thought. What was Europe but a continent of ghosts and graves, of hopeless, hollow-eyed peasants, and endless wars? Best wait for it to all blow over. And he couldn’t think of a better place to wait out the fourteenth century than Mexico. Sure, things had changed since the last times he’d been there. The human sacrifice, ritual warfare, and the end-of-the-world prophecies were new. But so were the floating gardens, and the steam baths, and the universal education. Crowley lifted the mug of chicha to his lips. He could stay here a while longer.

That thought lasted until Daeva sat down on the stool opposite to Crowley. He nearly choked on his chicha, and dropped his mug. Maize beer splattered onto his cloak, staining the red tassels brown. 

“Now, I believe we were about to have a nice, long talk about _jurisdiction_ ,” said Daeva. She rested her hands on the table in front of her, neatly folded. Grey feathers grew from the back of her wrists, like spiked gauntlets. 

“Fun talk, gotta go,” croaked Crowley. 

“Not so fast,” said Daeva, grabbing Crowley’s wrist. Her nails dug into his skin, and she fixed him with a flat, hollow gaze. “We haven’t even begun to -” 

A chill fell over the market. 

“Not again,” moaned Daeva. 

“Time to go?” suggested Crowley. 

“So you can try to bamboozle the king again? Fat chance,” said Daeva. “Here -” 

She dragged Crowley behind a sage bush at the edge of the market, just as Aziraphale led Michael and Gabriel to one of the nearby stalls. 

There were sweat stains on the front of Gabriel’s grey doublet, now, and Michael looked murderous. She glared at the marketgoers, but the humans’ gazes swept over the angels like water on glass. 

Daeva’s grasp tightened on Crowley’s wrist. He glanced at her, and saw a hungry light growing in her eyes.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was trying to sell the archangels on the virtues of cocoa. “It’s lovely and rich, and you get a lot of depth from the bitterness -” 

Crowley rolled his eyes, despite the archangels’ proximity and Daeva’s death-grip. Aziraphale would never tempt Gabriel and Michael to indulge in mortal drink with _that_ strategy. The angel should know better, at this point. You couldn’t tempt someone with something they didn’t already want, at least a little bit. And when you did, then it was best to dangle it casually out of reach, like a certain forlorn and forbidden fruit. You did _not_ try to stuff the metaphorical fruit down their metaphorical throats like a rabid metaphorical fruit-hawker. That would earn you nothing but a non-metaphorical kick in the goolies. Or a smiting, as the case might be. 

“Aziraphale. Let’s cut to the chase,” said Gabriel. “We came down to check on you, not to sully our bodies with gross matter. It’s admirable how you’re trying to reform the country. Especially since a demon’s had its claws in the city for the better part of two decades. But Rome wasn’t built in a day!” 

“Well, yes, but -” 

“Not to mention, the demon Crawley -” 

“Crowley,” corrected Aziraphale. 

“- he’s followed you over the Atlantic, and joined forces with the local demon to corrupt the city. And she’s even more powerful than he is.”

“More powerful,” said Aziraphale. “But not as devious.” 

“Principality, it’s not safe for you to be down here,” interrupted Michael. “You could take your holiday back in Europe. Or in the Arcturus system. There’s no need for you to muck about in this... filth.” She poked a clod of dirt with a silver-plated boot. 

“Perhaps we should accelerate the Plan,” said Gabriel. “Bring the Horsemen in early.” 

Daeva nearly leapt out of the bush at the mention of the Horsemen. There was a wildness in her eyes that Crowley had seen only a few times before. 

“Surely it’s a bit early to bring in the Horsemen,” said Aziraphale, on the other side of the sage bush. 

“Two hundred years is nothing in the grand scheme of things,” said Michael. “We can have them over on a Spanish frigate in no time. Just say the word.” 

Crowley drew in a hissing breath. He couldn’t let the Horsemen run rampant over Mexico. Nobody deserved the Horsemen. 

“No,” interrupted Aziraphale. 

“No?” said Michael, arching an elegant eyebrow. 

“It won’t be necessary,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve got the situation well in hand.” 

“There are two demons down here,” said Gabriel. “The city absolutely _reeks_ of evil.” 

“Oh. Daeva’s a non-factor,” said Aziraphale. “It’s Crowley that we need to watch for. He’s the wily one.” 

“You?” snarled Daeva, at Crowley. “But you’re-” 

“But he’s not as powerful,” said Gabriel. 

“That doesn’t matter,” said Aziraphale. “She’s all brawn, no brains. Were I a gambling sort, I’d put my money on Crowley anyday. Which I wouldn’t, of course. Because I don’t speculate on the affairs of demons. But Crowley will have sent Daeva scrambling back downstairs with her tail between her legs by the end of the month, I wager - oh, I mean - in any case, we’ll only be dealing with _one_ demon in a few weeks. Not two. No need to send the Horsemen in on account of one demon.” 

“Very well,” said Michael. “We’ll be monitoring the situation closely. But if both demons continue to exert influence over Tenochtitlan, we’ll have no choice but to bring in the Horsemen.” 

“It won’t be necessary,” hurried Aziraphale. 

“Better to purge this accursed hive of evil than to let it stand. The sacrifices, the festivals, the hedonism... I don’t know how you can stand it.” 

“One does one’s best,” said Aziraphale. 

“You’ve got gumption,” said Gabriel, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulder. “Just drop us a message if you need anything won’t you?” 

“Of course,” said Aziraphale. 

Gabriel opened his wings - all three sets - and Michael followed suit. The two archangels took flight, straight upwards into the sky. 

Aziraphale watched them go. When the archangels had disappeared out of sight, he sagged, confidence replaced by ragged weariness. Then he walked, slowly, out of the market. 

The instant Aziraphale had left the market, Daeva yanked Crowley upright by the front of his cloak. “More wily, are you?” she said. Crowley grappled with the diminutive demon’s grip on his cloak, to no avail. “I did say this town was too small for the two of us.” 

She threw Crowley against a retaining wall at the edge of the market. 

The back of his skull cracked against the stone, knocking Crowley’s glasses askew. Black specks swam in his vision. The townsfolk scattered, being able to overlook the ascension of two archangels to Heaven, but not wanton damage to public property. But he could breathe again, and a plan was beginning to crystallize. If he could eject Daeva from Mexico, then the archangels might never send the Horsemen over - 

“Knew the angel was right,” he said, clutching his throbbing head. “All brawn, no brains. Suppose you couldn’t beat me in a real contest of wits.” 

“A contest of wits?” said Daeva. She stalked over to where Crowley had landed, ready to toss him into another very hard stone wall. “Such as a game of patolli? A few rounds of riddles?” 

Crowley already knew what kind of contest to propose. As demons, they had only one official function: to secure souls for Hell, whether it be via bargains struck or sins committed. Some demons were better at it than others. And Crowley had been doing it for longer than anyone else. “A contest of temptations,” he said. He stood up, limbs groaning in pain, and straightened his glasses. 

He watched as Daeva mulled it over. She could see that she’d been goaded into it. But the newly kindled spark had not yet left her eyes, and he hoped that her pride would not allow her to turn down the challenge. 

And he’d hoped correctly. “Never took you for a traditionalist, Crowley,” said Daeva. She let go of the front of Crowley’s cloak. “Well, what’ll it be? How many souls we can secure in a fortnight? How many temptations we can inspire?” 

He didn’t have a chance in a contest of mass temptations. He preferred to nudge souls towards sin through more indirect means. Calling feast days for long-forgotten saints easily inspired Gluttony. A particularly cold winter might edge a few thousand more souls towards Lust. And if an assignment explicitly called for the temptation of an individual soul, he took his time, customizing the temptation to the target. “No,” said Crowley slowly. “It’s skill we want to test, not speed. We’re just going to tempt one soul. But with all seven cardinal sins.” And, not wanting to drag out the contest, he added, “Best four out of seven.” No point in having both of them try for all seven sins. If, for example, he tempted a priest to Gluttony on the first day of the harvest festival, it would be a cinch for Daeva to steal his strategy, and tempt the priest to Gluttony on the second day of the harvest festival. 

“Right,” said Daeva. “Which soul? The high priest of Huitzilopochtli? The king?” 

All good targets, but Crowley wasn’t sure it was fair for any human to bear the weight of both demon’s scrutiny for the course of the contest. “No,” said Crowley. “The angel.” 

Daeva stared at Crowley for a moment. Then she burst out laughing, a sharp, rending sound. “ _That_ angel.” 

“Yes,” said Crowley. 

“And there, I thought you’d lost your touch,” said Daeva. The ghost of a true smile passed briefly across her lips, and then was gone as quickly as it’d come. “Best four out of seven, you said. And the stakes?” 

“The loser leaves Tenochtitlan,” said Crowley. 

“Hah!” said Daeva. “I’d rather not run into you ever again. No. The loser leaves Earth for eternity, never to return.” 

_Eternity_ . Eternity was a long time. But it’d be worth it, to be rid of Daeva forever. And there was no way he’d lose. He _knew_ the angel. It’d be a piece of cake to tempt him into committing four of the cardinal sins. “Agreed,” said Crowley. 

“Standard terms and conditions?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, but pulled a sheath of parchment out from beneath her grey feathered cape. Words shimmered and burned into the paper. She offered Crowley a reed pen. “Sign at the bottom and we can get started,” she said. 

“I’d rather review this first, if it’s all the same to you,” said Crowley warily. “With my legal team.” 

“Fine,” said Daeva. “We’ll reconvene at midnight at... oh, the Great Pyramid. If I don’t see you there, I’ll run you out of town the old-fashioned way.” She swept her feathered cape around her, and disappeared into the market crowd, leaving only the smell of blood and ashes. 


	2. Terms and Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets legal advice.

Crowley’s accommodations currently consisted of a stone house with a high, peaked straw roof on top, a large verandah at the front, and a neglected, overgrown garden at the back. It had an open-concept layout, which was a kind way of saying it had only one room, so sparsely furnished it would put actual Spartans to shame. 

Crowley didn’t have any strong feelings about the property, in any case. He hadn’t come to Tenochtitlan to sleep. And padded reed mats weren’t particularly conducive to restful sleep, when one was accustomed to a down mattress, with linen sheets to keep the warmth in, and velvet hangings to keep the noise out. 

Besides, nothing kept the dreams out. Dreams of grain silos and fortresses and lighthouses, going up in flames, one after the other. Dreams of slithering through a dark forest, stalking a grey-feathered bird to the edge of an abyss, only for it to fly off, out of his reach. Crowley could always tell they were dreams, of course, but they were unsettling all the same. 

Crowley was pacing under the verandah, now, reviewing the “standard terms and conditions” of the wager. There was nothing _standard_ about them except the verbosity of the vocabulary and the slogginess of the syntax. He paced himself, flipping briskly through the pages so that he’d be able to reconvene with Daeva by midnight. 

In the last few hours, he’d finished reviewing the victory conditions of the contest itself. The terms and conditions had begun with the definitions of what constituted Greed, and Lust, and Wrath, and all the rest, for the purposes of the contest. It would not be enough to inspire a sinful thought within the angel, nor would a spoken word be sufficient to fulfil the terms of the contest. They’d have to tempt the angel to act on the impulse, as well, in a manner “deliberately consistent with and rationally connected to the sin in question.”

Which meant that, for example, neither an angry thought nor an angry word would constitute Wrath. Nor would it count if Aziraphale broke an inkpot out of frustration. He’d actually have to strike or smite the offending party. 

The ultimate arbitrator as to whether or not a temptation would count towards either demon’s victory would be the Terms and Conditions itself, which was unhelpfully referred to as “the _animus contrahendi_ , bound into material form for the purposes of enforcing the Terms and Conditions.” 

Crowley turned the page. The only text on that page was, “This page intentionally left blank.” The demon groaned in relief. At last, he was finished with the Terms of Victory. 

He turned the page again.

And cursed under his breath. For the next section was titled “Terms of Nullification,” and the text size was half that of the preceding section. Crowley flipped frantically through the remaining document. There was no way he could finish reviewing the Terms and Conditions before midnight. 

Blast it. He needed help. 

Professional help. 

## ∽⧗∼ 

Tenochtitlan was the largest city on its side of the Atlantic. It wasn’t as big as Paris, or Hangzhou, but Tenochtitlan could have given Milan a run for its money - at least, back when Milan still had money to speak of, before everything went pear-shaped. But that wasn’t important. 

As befitted Tenochtitlan’s regional importance, Hell had a side entrance located in one of the palace gardens. Crowley nearly approved. Nearly. 

He stood in the shade of a cypress tree, with a straw basket in the crook of his arm. A tile path ran through the gardens, leading from the blue-painted summerhouses to the tiled bathing-pools to the whitewashed palace walls. The air was thick with the sound of warbling birds, and the scent of flowers in full bloom. Fish and frogs splashed in the square ponds to either side of the demon. 

But the pool directly in front of Crowley was dark and mirror-smooth. No fish nor palace gardener dared disturb the silence of those waters. 

The demon gingerly stepped in, with his sandals still on. The water was cold, and soaked the bottom of his cloak immediately. He descended a few more steps on the stone stairs in the pond. The water was up to his waist, now. Crowley shivered. He might as well get it over with. He took a deep breath, and dove into the water. 

To an untrained observer, the pond appeared only a few feet deep - shallow enough that even the drunkest of palace revellers could be fished out without much effort. But Crowley swam down, deeper and deeper, until murky darkness surrounded him, and the only source of light was a weak, green glimmer below him. 

The light grew into a flickering window, beyond which grimy piles of debris and flickering fluorescent tubes were visible. Crowley braced himself. He was no longer swimming, but was being propelled forwards, feet-first, by an unseen force.

Crowley broke through the water into dank air, and landed onto grimy linoleum tile. A small torrent of water followed him into the lobby of Hell, drenching the demon anew. Crowley spluttered and wiped the water from his face, but his hair and cloak were still dripping. He began to wring out his hair, before abandoning his efforts and giving his glasses a cursory wipe on his cloak instead. There was no point in drying off - not when he’d have to return the way he came. 

He scowled and stalked towards the Recorporation Office, straw basket still in arm. Wet footprints trailed behind him, and his sandals squished with every step.

Five thousand years ago, Upstairs had sent a hundred thousand angels to Earth, ostensibly to guide humanity and shape the course of civilization. And Satan, not to be outdone, had sent just as many demons up to stir up trouble. Those hundred thousand demons and hundred thousand angels had inevitably run into philosophical disagreements, followed by ideological clashes, followed by regular clashes, ending in discorporation of one or both parties. 

A demon relieved of their body could get right back in the fray by possessing a human body. There were all sorts of trouble one could get up to while in a human body. You could still destabilize governments, tempt a priest, or shank an angel while wearing a human body. But human bodies tended to be somewhat less functional than a standard-issue body. They were not as capable of channeling magic, and a bit squishier besides, with the additional downsides of actually having to eat and sleep to remain functional. Thus the Recorporation Office had been established to keep the forces of Hell well-supplied with bodies to carry out Satan’s agenda. 

Back then, the Recorporation Office had been a thousand-strong office of the very best minds Hell had to offer. They could whip up new bodies to order with astonishing speed: a discorporated demon could be back on Earth within an hour to fight the bad fight. But no longer. 

Over the next few thousand years, both Heaven and Hell had slowly eased back on their interventions on Earth. Crowley hadn’t been entirely sure why. Even if the Great Plan dictated that Heaven reduce its field staff, there was no reason that Hell should have to do the same. 

But Beelzebub had rolled her eyes and assured Crowley, “We’ll get our day in the limelight, don’t you worry.” Then she’d cackled, sending flies zooming merrily around the conference room. 

So Crowley hadn’t pushed the matter. 

Now, there were only a few dozen demons on Earth. The former field agents were reassigned to the busier departments of Hell - the War Office, Rack and Dismemberment, and Internal Strategy. And the staffing of the Recorporation Office had been diminished to match, as paper-pushers were shuffled out to learn the art of the blade and the axe and the wallopmallet. The Recorporation Office still did exactly what it used to, of course, but with a smaller office and longer wait times. 

Crowley pushed open a nondescript door, hanging slightly askew on its hinges. 

“Hey, Nyx,” he said, to the demon at the front desk. Her tabletop was stacked with bloodstained sheaves of parchment and novelty goat figurines. Beyond her stretched an endless corridor lined with towering filing cabinets, holding the corporation specifications and incident reports for field agents who hadn’t been to Earth in hundreds of years. 

“Wotcher, Crowley,” she said. “Meatspace treating you alright?” Nyx looked and dressed like a street urchin, if urchins had double rows of serrated teeth and tiny horns poking out of their short, curly hair. Her feet were propped up on the desk. 

“More or less,” he said. He reached into his straw basket, pulled out a small clay jug, and lobbed it towards her. 

Nyx swung her legs off the desk, and snatched the bottle greedily out of the air. “You always bring the good stuff,” she said. She popped the cork off the bottle with a jagged, acid-green nail, and tipped the jug to her lips. Then her expression soured slightly. “This is deer’s blood. You know I prefer goat’s blood,” she accused.

“No goats in Mexico,” said Crowley. 

“Excuses, excuses,” said Nyx, but her cheeks were flushed pink. “Well. I take it this isn’t a social call, is it?” She looked Crowley up and down. “I’ve still got your corporation specs in the back, but it doesn’t look like you need another body.” 

“Afraid not,” said Crowley.

“Good,” said Nyx. “Didn’t feel like dragging another blank meatsuit out of the supply closet and drawing a face on it, anyways.” 

“There’s more to it than that,” said Crowley. 

Nyx rolled her eyes. “Not really. We’ve got bodies for field agents, bodies for the office staff, and bodies for the what-have-yous blowing stars up, but drawing a face on them and making sure the noses look right is _easy_.” She took another sip from the jug. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear about how we issue the meatsuits.” 

“I’ve got a set of Terms and Conditions I need another pair of eyes on,” said Crowley. 

“Then go to Legal. Or Rack and Dismemberment, they’ve got loads of spare eyes,” said Nyx. She belched indelicately. “What’d you need a check on it anyway? All the contracts are standard nowadays. Cuts down on overhead.” 

Crowley waved a hand dismissively at the door. “I don’t trust those muppets for anything more than boilerplate text,” he said. “These are the Terms and Conditions for a _special_ contract.”

“Ah,” said Nyx. She leaned towards Crowley. “How special?” 

“Extremely,” said Crowley. “And you’re one of the best when it comes to reviewing contracts.” 

Flattery did not get Crowley where he thought it would. “Oh, shit,” said Nyx. She leaned back in her chair. “It’s not for the wager between you and Daeva, is it?”

“What - Daeva’s already been here?” spluttered Crowley. 

“Yeah,” sighed Nyx. 

“And did she bring the goat’s blood?” 

“No. But she did toss a dozen copies and forty silver around the office for us to review it.”

“And?”

“Well, we couldn’t say _no_ to an Underduke, right? You know their sort. Full of themselves because they’re a hundred times more powerful and could feed us to the Hellhounds before you say _attorney-client privilege_ . But they’ve got _such_ a chip on the shoulder about it, because _Underduke of Hell_ doesn’t have the same ring to it as _Duke of Hell._ ” Nyx set the jug of blood down on her desk, and leveled an apologetic gaze at Crowley. “She didn’t care what we had to say. Only that we’d taken her money and looked at the papers. So we couldn’t help you.” 

“Right,” said Crowley. “You know if there’s anyone legally inclined in another department?” 

“Daeva got to all of them first,” said Nyx. “You could bother the higher-ups that she can’t threaten. Feel like trying your luck with Ligur? Heard he’s taking a break from flaying the souls of the damned.” 

“Not really,” said Crowley. 

“Or maybe Melkor? I heard his novel’s going well. He’s only rewritten it twice this month.”

“Even worse,” muttered Crowley. Last he’d spoken to Melkor, the Duke of Hell had trapped him in a detailed explanation of elven genealogy, realized he’d married off a pair of first cousins, and incinerated the entire family tree in rage. 

“Look, guv, I’d love to help. I really would. Daeva’s the worst. Remember the time she had Bob fed to the Hellhounds?” 

Bob, a hulking mass of slime and tentacles straining to fit within the habit of a Benedictian friar, poked what might have been a head out from behind a mouldy cubicle wall. “Eerheerdminame,” he gurgled. 

“He hasn’t been the same since,” continued Nyx. “He’s all traumatized. Gets nightmares and backflashes.” 

“Flashbacks,” said Crowley. 

“Yeah, that’s what I said,” said Nyx. 

“Noritizzint,” said Bob. “Crouleeegotitrite.”

“Whatever, Bob,” scoffed Nyx. She looked back at Crowley apologetically. “Like I said, no can-do. Cos of. Er. Attorney-client privilege and conflict of interest. Y’know.”

“Not really,” glowered Crowley. “Since when have you cared about conflict of interest?” 

“Since Daeva threatened to disembowel me if I helped you,” said Nyx. “Come on, Crowley. I like you. But I like self-preservation better. It’s when, y’know, you don’t do shit that could get you fed to the Hellhounds by an Underduke.” 

“I know what self-preservation is.” 

“Noryudont,” said Bob. His tentacles curled arrogantly. 

“That’s right,” said Nyx. “If you knew what self-preservation was, you wouldn’t be a field agent. I was on Earth once. It was the _worst_. Everything’s out to kill you. The weather. The animals. The plants. And don’t get me started on the humans.” She rubbed her arms involuntarily. “Can’t stand watching those mortal meatbags flapping their meat faces at each other.”

“We’re flapping our meat faces at each other,” rationalized Crowley. 

Nyx stopped rubbing her arms, and slapped her palms down on top of the desk. “That’s different, and you know it.”

Crowley didn’t really, but he still felt compelled to defend his favourite planet. “Earth has its upsides,” he said cautiously. 

“Yeah, if _sentimentality_ and _meat flapping_ is an upside. You know what’s got upsides? The Ring Nebula. Or the Crab Nebula. You could spend a thousand years making dick-shaped nebulae up there, ankle-deep in hydrogen gas and stellar fission. Or blowing them up, if it suited your fancy. Supernovas are the _shit_. Wouldn’t have to see or talk to anyone, unless you wanted to.”

“Then why don’t you go?” 

“Because the Recorporation Office has _even more_ upsides,” said Nyx. “It’s nice and quiet. I’ve got seniority here. And once in a while, someone comes in with a jug of goat’s blood and some hot goss.” She scratched her head. “I’m comfortable here. Besides, if I left, they’d reassign Bob. Or change my filing system.” Her eyes darkened. “Can’t let anybody mess with my baby.” 

Crowley’s gaze fell to the chasm of cabinets behind Nyx. “Yeah, we wouldn’t want that,” he said. “It’d probably collapse the fabric of reality or something.” 

“Flatterer,” she said, and rolled her eyes. 

“You like it,” said Crowley. 

“I do,” she sighed, and leaned closely to Crowley. “And that’s why I can tell you one more thing.” 

“What’s that?” 

“If I were a demon, in a wager with an Underduke, I’d review my terms and conditions real closely, just in case anything slipped in.” 

“Right,” said Crowley. 

“Real closely.” 

“Got it.” 

Nyx leaned back, and slapped the top of her desk again. “Well, it’s sure been fun talking to you,” she said loudly. “Bob and I are rooting for you. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there!” 

“Norttedorgs,” shouted Bob. He fell out of his chair and oozed rapidly away. He left puddles of thick grey slime in the valley of filing cabinets behind him. “Norttedogs!” 

“Shit,” said Nyx. “Shouldn’t have said that.” She descended from her perch on the spinning chair, and ran after the other demon. “Bob, it’s alright, the Hellhounds aren’t coming -” 

Crowley was left alone in the Recorporation Office. 

If he couldn’t ask anyone Downstairs to help with his review of the Terms and Conditions, there was only one other person he could turn to. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

Crowley paused outside a small adobe-brick house with a peaked straw roof. It was identical to the other adobe-brick houses clustered around the courtyard at the end of the street, except that its awning was a dingy cream instead of brightly dyed scarlet or green or blue. Children scrambled around the courtyard, shouting and screaming. Open cooking-fires burned in front of several houses, the smell of dinner wafting up into the sky. 

It wasn’t as though he was asking anything _illegal_ or _unethical_. Nobody was going to get hurt. As long as he won the wager. 

He knocked on the door. 

“Come in,” called Aziraphale.

Crowley pushed the door open. The single room of the house had narrow slitted windows, but the room was as bright as if it had been open to the noontime sky. There was a hearth at the back, and a long, low writing-desk in the middle. Aziraphale sat behind it, on a reed mat. “Hey, angel,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale looked up from the writing-desk, and beamed. “Crowley! To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Crowley didn’t answer, but made a show of taking in the open crates of books and scrolls were scattered around him. He recognized them as the documents that Aziraphale had brought over on his leaky boat. They had been now joined by multiple wicker baskets of herbs and flowers. A mortar and pestle rested on the writing table. Somewhere, in the back, the demon could see a pile of reed mats that might’ve served as a bed.

Aziraphale noticed the demon’s gaze wandering around the room. “Er. Yes. It’s a personal project,” he said, standing up. 

“You’re on _holiday,”_ accused Crowley. 

“Which is why I specified it’s a _personal_ project,” said Aziraphale. 

“A project outside the celestial auspices. Dare I ask what?” 

“Rest assured, it’s for the greater good,” said Aziraphale, glancing at the chaos behind him. 

Crowley gagged. Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley diplomatically switched tack. “I need a favour.” 

“And what is, er, the _nature_ of this favour?” 

“Do you know the demon Daeva?” 

“Erm, she’s got a fantastic personal library, but -” 

“What?” said Crowley. His eyebrows shot up. All thoughts of the wager were briefly eclipsed by the idea of Aziraphale and Daeva holding an interoffice book club. The angel had the sense to look mildly abashed as he opened his mouth to answer. “You know what, I don’t want to know,” said Crowley, pushing the thought out of his mind, lest Aziraphale embark upon a tangent about whatever first editions he coveted that week. “We’ve made a wager. Winner gets dibs on Mexico.” And the rest of the world, really, but there was no need to get the angel all worked up on the specifics of their contest. 

Aziraphale didn’t look surprised, but said, “I don’t think I could read the contract. Demonic script’s not my forte, you understand.” 

“Don’t worry,” said Crowley breezily. “We switched to Latin a thousand years ago.” 

“And, er, I’m not equipped to advise on legal issues. I’m not a lawyer.” 

“You were a scribe, once,” said Crowley. “That’s nearly the same thing.” 

“Well, yes, but very briefly. And three thousand years ago. On the other side of the ocean.” 

“Don’t be pedantic,” accused Crowley. 

That nearly got a rise out of the angel. “I’m not! There’s also the matter of, er, conflict of interest, I think -” 

“Yes, that’s _exactly_ what Downstairs said,” said Crowley. “Left me high and dry.” 

“And, I’m simply not _equipped_ to help you. It’d be irresponsible of me to try.”

“It’d be irresponsible to let me go without reviewing the Terms and Conditions,” said Crowley. 

“What about a human lawyer?” suggested Aziraphale. “They’ve got those around here -” 

“And none of them have a _fraction_ of the experience you do,” said Crowley. “Come on, Aziraphale. I’ve got to finish reading this by midnight. There’s literally nobody else that can help.” 

“The less I know, the better.”

“It’s your _duty_ to know thy enemy,” said Crowley. 

“I know you plenty well,” said Aziraphale. A pink tinge crept inexplicably up the angel’s cheeks, clashing with the gold embroidery on his poncho. And despite his best efforts, the demon felt himself grow warm around the collar of his cloak as well. 

“Rest assured, you don’t know everything,” said Crowley. There were some cards he kept closer to his chest. It wasn’t that he was ashamed, or thought that the angel would think less of him. It was just better that way. Good fences made good neighbours. “It’s just the back end of the Terms and Conditions that I need help with. The Terms of Nullification, stating what would void the contest entirely. I’ve skimmed it already, and there’s nothing pertaining to what exactly what the contest entails. You’ll come out of it with your plausible deniability intact.”

“I don’t know,” said the angel doubtfully. 

“Look, Aziraphale, this is important,” said Crowley. “Daeva and I have - history together.” Aziraphale didn’t respond, but his face had broken out into a blotchy flush. “Very recent history,” clarified Crowley. 

“I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale. 

“Daeva is a menace. If this works, she’ll be out of my hair forever.” 

“That’s not what I -” muttered Aziraphale. 

“You’ve seen what she’s done to Mexico already. It’s just a matter of time before your people flatten the whole place, and summon the Horsemen here.” Crowley’s hands were shaking. He palmed one of Aziraphale’s reed pens, just to have something to wrap his fingers around. “That’s been her plan all along. To corrupt the city so badly that Upstairs _has_ to do something. Just like Europe.” 

“You don’t know that’s going to happen,” said Aziraphale. 

“No, I do,” said Crowley. “I saw you giving the archangels the grand tour today. And I saw Daeva nearly leap out of her skin with excitement when they brought up the Horsemen.” 

“But why? You can’t tempt souls if they’re dead.” 

“I know, and killing loads of people is the Almighty’s purview,” snapped Crowley. “I _know_ that Upstair will probably bring the Horsemen over to the Americas in a few hundred years.” He began to pace across the floor of Aziraphale’s single-room hut. 

“To purge the unbelievers,” said Aziraphale reluctantly. “I know it’s hard, but - well - Upstairs hasn’t had the staff to police the continent, with the new initiatives going on -” 

“Tenochtitlan was founded literally fifty years ago! It’s too _early_ to let it go the way of Sodom and Gomorrah, or Rome.”

“Rome’s not dead,” said Aziraphale, “and Tenochtitlan’s not your responsibility.” 

“It might as well be,” said Crowley. “Are you going to help, or not? You can’t possibly want the Horsemen to ride over so soon.” He gestured towards the city outside of Aziraphale’s door. “You can’t want _this_ to turn a flaming pile of rubble by this time next year.” 

“Well, if it’s part of the Great Plan, there’s nothing I can do about it -” 

“It’s not part of the Great Plan _yet_ . It’s just a figment of Daeva’s imagination. But if I let her go on much longer, it’ll become part of the Plan.” Crowley exhaled forcefully. “You can’t want _that._ ” 

“I don’t,” admitted Aziraphale. 

“So you’ll help?” 

“I’ll help,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley paused. “Really?” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale firmly. “I don’t want to know the specifics of your disagreement with Daeva, but I’ll help you review the Terms and Conditions.” 

Crowley mentally shelved the rest of his argument, which might have involved storming dramatically out of Aziraphale’s residence, eating a pile of cacao beans, and blowing through the rest of the Terms and Conditions in a caffeine-fuelled haze. “Thank you,” he said. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Aziraphale. “Thank me when you’ve won. Now, where do we begin?” 

## ∽⧗∼ 

Two demons met upon a midnight clear. The wind whipped their hair and clothes around them at the top of the Great Pyramid, and the full moon shone brightly down, illuminating the dried blood on the stone steps and the crumbling blossoms at the sacrificial altar. 

Crowley spoke first. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice the extra clauses you slipped into the standard terms and conditions?” he said. Despite Aziraphale’s protestations to the contrary, the angel was as adept with wrangling trailing clauses and cross-referencing footnotes as any lawyer he’d ever met. 

“Oops,” she said. 

“Well, I’ve taken the liberty of taking them out, and adding a few of my own in,” said Crowley. 

“Such as?” 

“Firstly, no magic,” said Crowley. “To even the playing field.” 

“Because I’m more powerful,” said Daeva languidly. “Well, if you must.” 

“Except disguises. Disguises are allowed,” interrupted Crowley. “So is turning into animals.” 

Daeva looked taken aback. Probably nobody had interrupted her in the last thousand years. “Why?” she asked. 

“Well, we’re demons,” said Crowley. “The angel will see our temptations from a mile away if we go after him as ourselves. Also, it’s not like I could tempt anyone as a great talking snake.” 

“Fine,” she said. “Any other last requests?” 

“I’ve reviewed the sabotage clause as well,” said Crowley. 

“You call it sabotage, but it’s just strategy,” said Daeva. 

“What’s to stop you from shanking me the moment I sign the contract?” said Crowley. “You could win the whole thing while I’m stuck Downstairs in the Recorporation Office.” 

“You’re not afraid of a bit of clever gamesmanship, are you?” asked Daeva.

“Well, I’m not, but discorporation is now listed as grounds for disqualification in the contest. Unless it’s in self-defence,” said Crowley. “Speaking of discorporation, can’t discorporate the angel, either.”

“I knew you were getting soft.” 

“It’s a matter of practicality. Can’t tempt someone who’s dead. Or discorporated.” 

“Any more changes?” said Daeva. She fixed Crowley with a gimlet eye. “They won’t protect you. I’ll still win.” 

“You wish,” said Crowley. He took a deep breath. “So, to summarize. Best four out of seven temptations on the angel. To be carried out in whichever order we see fit, without magic, and without discorporation.” 

“If you’re finished,” said Daeva, inspecting the dirt beneath her fingernails. 

Crowley flipped back to the front of the contract, and laid it on the sacrificial stone. “Sign there -” he pointed at the bottom of the page. 

Daeva plucked a grey feather from the back of her right hand. Then, she slashed a sharp glyph across the parchment. The feather sank into the parchment when she was done, and her signature glowed a dull grey. 

Crowley pulled a reed pen out from the folds of his cloak. He’d stolen it from Aziraphale. The demon doodled a sigil onto the parchment. It glowed red, like an ember. 

A cloud passed in front of the moon. 

Instead of fading, the signatures began to shine more intensely. 

The terms and conditions rose slowly off the sacrificial altar. Two wavering, ghostly mirrors of the contract split off the original document, flanking the parchment sheaf. 

Then the two ghostly copies exploded with a thunderclap. The blast knocked Crowley flat on his back, at the top of the pyramid. 

Spots danced across Crowley’s vision, and his ears rang. Crowley reached for his power, to strengthen himself. But he felt a glassy wall where his pool of magic should have been. 

That must’ve been the magic restriction in the Terms and Conditions. So the contract had been binding, after all. The demon struggled upright, on legs that felt like jelly. 

Daeva had received the worst of the blast. She was on her hands and knees, retching emptily. 

Crowley ignored the other demon. On the sacrificial altar lay a copy of the terms and conditions, with two signatures seared into the front. To either side was a silver ring. Crowley picked one up gingerly. Seven colourless gems were set all around it - one for each of the seven temptations. On the inside was engraved: _palmam qui meruit ferat_. He assumed the ring was meant to keep track of who was winning their wager. 

“Bless you and that _no magic_ clause,” croaked Daeva. She pulled herself up at the altar. The Underduke must have felt the loss of her powers more strongly than Crowley. She picked up the other ring with shaky hands, and slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand. Then, she glared at Crowley. 

Crowley slipped the ring onto his own hand. 

With an almighty creaking shudder, the stone altar cracked in half. And so did the Great Pyramid, and Tenochtitlan itself. Crowley clung to his half of the altar again as it shook. A crevasse opened up in the mortal plane, revealing an infernal light below. And the Terms and Conditions fell off the altar and into the chasm, along with Aziraphale’s pen. Probably straight to the Legal Office for posterity. 

And as quickly as it had opened, the chasm closed back up, with the sound of a giant book slamming shut. 

There was silence in Tenochtitlan, broken by the sound of frogs in Lake Texcoco. The clouds thinned out, revealing the moon’s face again. 

It had been a long time since Crowley had seen the _animus contrahendi_ in action. He stood up and brushed nonexistent dust off his cloak. 

To his disappointment, Daeva looked like she had recovered from her momentary weakness. The silver band gleamed on her finger as she smoothed the ruffled feathers on her shoulders, and she smiled as if Crowley had signed his soul away. “May the best demon win,” she said.

“It’ll be me, of course,” said Crowley. 

Daeva shook her head. “Your sin truly is Pride.” 

“And yours isn’t?” 

“No,” said Daeva. The smile had vanished from her face, replaced again by a look of impassivity. “It is not.” 

In a whirl of her cape, she turned into a large grey raven, cawed once, and took flight. 

Crowley exhaled gustily, alone on the top of the Great Pyramid. 

If he was lucky, Aziraphale wouldn’t notice that his pen had gone missing. 


	3. Gluttony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley crashes a banquet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some readers commented that Crowley could win the bet easily by just telling Aziraphale what he was up to, or that Daeva could win easily by impersonating Crowley. Neither of those things are going to happen. It's not much of a temptation if Aziraphale _knows_ that eating a huge pile of tamales will result in the exile of a particularly nasty demon - one outcome is clearly morally superior to the other. And, at least in-universe, it's far too difficult to impersonate another demon. Also, I pulled that plot device off already in the first story I ever wrote, so that would not be as much fun to write.
> 
> In summary, Crowley needs to win legitimately.

Crowley spent the night strategizing - pacing back and forth in his front yard, then pacing back and forth in the backyard, and then pacing back and forth between the floating gardens in case a change of scenery might jumpstart his inspiration. Come morning, he’d developed a four-step plan towards victory. After four easy temptations, the world would be rid of Daeva forever. All that was left to do was to enact the plan. 

First up was Gluttony. To say that the angel was not averse to using his stomach for recreational purposes was an understatement. Four hundred years ago, Crowley had seen Aziraphale glance around a Constantinople dinner party surreptitiously before plucking the very last fig pastry off a serving platter. What kind of monster ate the  _ last _ of anything? Gluttony was going to be a piece of cake. A low-hanging fruit, if one were inclined. Better that Crowley plucked it than Daeva. 

He was not concerned that Daeva might impersonate him to do the job first. It was easy to disguise oneself as a human - all a demon had to do was tuck their aura away, put on a funny hat, undertake one moderately uncomfortable ritual, and bingo. He’d be nigh-indistinguishable from any of the humans scuttering around the planet. Impersonating a fellow demon, on the other hand, required duplicating the others’ aura perfectly, which was an extremely involved process requiring more magic than was permitted to them in the Terms and Conditions. 

As for how the temptation of Gluttony would be accomplished, Crowley suspected that he’d be able to inspire Gluttony in the angel with nothing more than an invitation to lunch, a hot pitcher of xocoatl, and a fragrant pile of tamales. But there were tamales  _ everywhere _ . There was nothing special about tamales. Aziraphale was unlikely to overindulge on tamales, knowing there was probably another pile of them around the next corner. Crowley couldn’t afford to stumble on his four-step plan by settling for some peasant luncheon. He needed a blessed banquet. 

As luck would have it, the king’s son had been born four days ago. Thus, it was now time for the priests, the attending midwife, and the meteorologists to saddle the kid with a name like “Eagle Feather” or “Wrath of the Gods.” Crowley didn’t care if they called the child “Abbadon, Destroyer of Worlds,” because the naming ceremony would be accompanied with a feast of imperial proportions. It was a feast that Aziraphale would be certain to attend anyway, given the angel’s penchant for turning up at catered functions. Crowley need only show up at the opportune moment to nudge the angel in the direction of his worst instincts. 

So that was how Crowley sauntered up to the palace gardens, shortly after sunrise, to attend a child’s naming ceremony. 

There were two guards at the gate, both stone-faced and burly, identically clad in pale, quilted tunics. Each wielded an obsidian-edged club in one hand, and plain leather-covered shields, fringed with small, red feathers. 

“Halt,” the one on the left barked. “The palace is closed for a private event.” 

“I’m on the guest list,” said Crowley smoothly. 

“There isn’t a guest list,” said the guard. “It’s for friends and family of the King only.” 

“Oh, for -” began Crowley. He snapped his fingers. “And I  _ am _ close friends with the King. I was at court only yesterday.” 

“No, you weren’t,” said the guard on the right. “I’ve never seen your face before.” 

Crowley cursed the old man disguise that he’d worn yesterday, and the no-magic clause in the terms and conditions. “Well, now you have seen my face,” he said. “How ‘bout we trade a few pleasantries, and then you let me in?” He reached into the leather pouch at his waist for said “pleasantries.” Passing off a fistful of the cacao beans the locals used as currency was certainly more unwieldy than slipping a silver coin in a handshake, but  _ when in Tenochtitlan... _

Only to remember that he did not have any cacao beans in his waist-pouch. Crowley patted himself down frantically. 

“If you’re finished,” said the guard on the left. 

Crowely pointed to his right. “Look, the palace is on fire!” 

The guards’ heads whipped around. Crowley ducked his head and ran. If he could lose himself in the crowd - 

Then a hand caught the back of his cloak and yanked him backwards. Crowley’s legs flew out from underneath him, and he sprawled backwards into the dust. 

“You really thought that would work?” growled the guard. 

“It was worth a try,” said Crowley. 

The guards exchanged glances. One of them sniffed. “You smell like wine,” he declared. “The punishment for public drunkenness is exile.” 

“Come on, guys -” 

The guards hauled Crowley up off the ground, to frog-march him off the premises. 

“It’s alright, fellows,” said a familiar voice. “I know him -” Aziraphale appeared at the edge of Crowley’s vision, with a goblet already in hand. 

“Was he invited to the naming ceremony?” said the guard. 

“He is now,” said Aziraphale firmly, with just a trace of power in his voice. 

The guard nodded, suddenly mollified, and let go of Crowley’s left arm. 

The guard on the right looked at his comrade. “You can’t be serious. This man’s a drunk -” 

“I am  _ not _ a drunk,” protested Crowley. “I’m just, ah, conserving power -” 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the other guard let go of the demon as well. Crowley dropped to the ground like a sack of maize. His position gave him a great view of the sky, until the angel entered the frame again. “Hi,” said Crowley. 

“You’re welcome,” said Aziraphale, extending a hand. “Conserving power, now?” 

“Wouldn’t want to get audited on holiday.” Crowley groaned and wrenched himself to his feet. “So, what did I miss?” he asked, as he brushed dirt off his cloak. Black showed dust and debris distressingly well. He’d have it cleaned off when he won the wager. 

“Nothing yet,” said Aziraphale. “I didn’t know you were coming, Crowley - didn’t think that children’s birthday parties were your thing.” 

They wound their ways through the garden together. The largest gazebo had been set up to accommodate a massive U-shaped banquet table. Entertainers of some sort were performing in the centre of the arrangement.

“It’s a naming ceremony, not a birthday party,” said Crowley. “And I only came for the food. Don’t pretend you didn’t.” 

“I really didn’t,” protested Aziraphale.

“And I’m the governor of Shangri-la,” said Crowley. 

They took their seats at the edge of the table. Deer, rabbit, and turkeys roasted on hot stones in pits dug at the edge of the gazebo. Maize tamales were piled high on every table. Every cup was brimming with xocoatl. And best of all, Daeva was not in attendance. 

In the centre of the banquet tables, a troupe of actors was putting on a performance for the children in attendance, depicting the eternal battle between night and day. They were at a climactic point in the story, wherein Huitzilopochtli, god of war, was preparing to fight the moon and the stars. 

“The blood of my people grants me strength to reclaim the sky from the denizens of the night,” declared Huitzilopochtli. He was painted yellow and red, and wielded a club edged with feathers. The white-painted moon and stars cowered. 

Then a giant snake danced on stage, representing the serpent god Quetzalcoatl. Crowley swelled with pride, despite the cheaply painted scales on the costume, and the motheaten plumes of the headdress. “There is no need for human life,” beseeched Quetzalcoatl. “The lifeforce of deer and hummingbirds will suffice to keep darkness at bay -” 

The crowd booed. Crowley stole a glance at Aziraphale. The angel’s lips were pressed together in concentration, and Crowley realized with a tiny pang of guilt that Aziraphale really had come for more than the free food. He was doing  _ something _ to abate the bloodlust of both the performance and the audience. But he was not entirely succeeding. It was no small thing, to push back against centuries of cultural momentum. 

“You’re getting soft,” shouted a pimple-faced nephew of the king. 

The actor at the head of the serpent looked disgruntled, but forged onwards. “ _ As I was saying _ , there’s no need to shed human blood -” 

“Get on with it,” yelled a heckler. 

“I, Quetzalcoatl, shall leave this wretched land,” shouted the serpent god. “Until comes a time to usher in a new age of peace and prosperity -” 

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s influence over the audience break. 

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” chanted the crowd. The chant was punctuated with a volley of tomatoes. Ripe fruit splattered on the actors’ costumes. The actor playing the serpent god pulled their mask off, revealing a flinty-eyed woman with a mane of curly hair and a look of disgust. She glared at the crowd, and exited stage right. The god of war, the moon, and the stars followed suit. 

Crowley caught fragments of the conversation as the troupe shuffled out. “They don’t pay us enough for this shit, Tozi,” groused the god of war. 

“Agreed,” said the curly-haired woman. “Children’s birthday parties are the  _ worst _ ...” 

Crowley turned his attention back to his dining companion. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “That didn’t go so well.” His face was uncharacteristically drawn, and he looked completely drained.

“‘s not your fault,” said Crowley. “It’s a tough crowd.” 

The angel’s goblet was empty, and he’d barely touched his food. A perfunctory heap of beans sat sadly on the plate. Crowley cleared his throat. “Say, angel, are you going to eat that?” he said. 

“Oh. Did you want that?” Aziraphale pushed his plate towards Crowley.

The demon hissed between his teeth. “No, that’s not what I meant -” 

The whole wager would be so much easier to win if he just  _ told _ Aziraphale about the contest.  _ Here, Aziraphale, if you stuff yourself silly, I’ll be twenty-five percent closer to banishing a genocidal demon from the face of the Earth!  _ That was the world’s easiest cost-benefit analysis, not a temptation. There was no way that the  _ animus contrahendi  _ would interpret it as a  _ bona fide  _ effort on Crowley’s part, and consequently, no way that a temptation carried out that way would count in his favour in the final tally. 

But before Crowley could clarify his prior statement in a way that didn’t didn’t compromise the integrity of the wager, the warriors began pounding on their drums, signalling the beginning of the naming ceremony. 

“Oh! They’re about to begin,” said Aziraphale eagerly. 

Crowley clenched his tamale so hard the vegetable filling burst out of its wrapper. But he said nothing, as the queen rose from her seat at the head table. She took the infant from a nursemaid, swaddled in a cotton blanket. The king followed closely behind. 

Huitzilopochtli’s head priest, in a headdress of red feathers and an ornately embroidered loincloth, stepped forth to take the child. Then, he huddled in with the meteorologists and the midwives, who were dressed in more muted colours, and had no headdresses to speak of. 

“Used to be the priest of the feathered serpent who did this,” muttered Crowley. 

“Pardon?” said Aziraphale, who had been watching the ceremony intently. 

“The feathered serpent. He used to be king of the gods. Now, he’s been replaced by the gods of rain, jaguars, and war.” 

“What’s wrong with rain or jaguars?” 

“Nothing,” said Crowley. He shrugged. “But it was nice, just once, for snakes to be at the top of the theological heap. The Olmecs got that right on the first try.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “Do you think that was Daeva’s doing? Her influence here is more entrenched than I’d expected.” 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself - she’s an Underduke. Or maybe snakes are just going out of style around here. It happens sometimes, y’know.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“They had a good run,” said Crowley. 

The huddle at the centre of the banquet tables parted. The head priest lifted up the baby above his head. “Your trade is war and your skill is battle,” he proclaimed. “The sun will bathe in the blood of your enemies, and the earth will grow rich with their corpses! And your name shall be Huitzilihuitl, the Hummingbird Feather.” 

Crowley did not appreciate the symbolism behind the name, and evidently, neither did Huitzilihuitl. The infant opened his mouth and wailed. 

“It’s been a while since we’ve been in Mexico, hasn’t it?” said Aziraphale, distracting Crowley from Huitzilihuitl’s tantrum. 

“Just a few hundred years,” said Crowley. He didn’t visit Mexico half as often as he liked. And every time he did, he found that more and more of it had slipped away and become replaced with something different. Such was the way of things. The Olmecs had come and gone, and the jungle had all but reclaimed the great city of Tamoanchan. The Mayans had been reduced from the towering pyramids of Tikal to isolated forest enclaves in the south. And last time, he’d gone looking for the Toltec city of Tollan, only to find no trace of it at all. 

If he’d been able to stay for longer periods of time, perhaps he might have come to appreciate the slow cultural change in the way that wine aged. But as it was, it was like coming home and realizing all the furniture had been rearranged when he wasn’t looking. 

_ Because Mexico isn’t home _ , whispered a traitorous voice inside the demon.  _ Home is burning an ocean away.  _

Crowley emptied half the wine from his cup in a single swallow. Then he plastered an encouraging smile on his face. “Well, dig in,” he said to Aziraphale, with a significant glance at the near-untouched plate of food before the angel. “Huitzilihuitl won’t celebrate his naming by himself.” 

“I don’t think it’s over,” said the angel softly. 

A dull roar filled Crowley’s ears, and it was a moment before he realized it was the sound of drums. The king’s warriors were leading a man clad only in a white loincloth to the altar. His hands were unbound, and religious fervour glittered in his eyes. 

The drums beat louder. 

The head priest pushed the man down onto the stone altar, face up. Four blue-painted attendants held the man down, but there was no need. All six of them were chanting, but it was drowned out by the beat of the drums, and the pounding in Crowley’s ears. 

A wicked obsidian dagger glinted in the priest’s right hand. He plunged the dagger down into the man’s chest, into the diaphragm. If the man shrieked, Crowley could not hear it. He dropped the dagger, plunged his hand into the man’s chest, and pulled the heart out. 

Then, he placed the heart into an offered bowl. The heart shone red with blood. It was still beating.

The other priests carried the body away, and the head priest placed the bowl at the statue of Huitzilopochtli, a little ways down the garden path. 

The drums began to slow, and the attendees of the feast resumed their chatter. 

Crowley didn’t move. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a human sacrifice in Mesoamerica, but it was the first he’d seen at a newborn’s naming ceremony. There was no question that this was Daeva’s doing. 

To his left, Aziraphale looked similarly disconcerted. “I seem to have lost my appetite, my dear,” said the angel. 

Crowley looked back down at the papaya on his plate. It glistened wetly. “Yeah. Me too.” 

Winning the wager might be more difficult than he’d anticipated. 

##  ∽⧖∼

Crowley gave Gluttony another go the following afternoon, which happened to be a Tuesday. For as long as he could remember, the angel had always taken Tuesdays off, citing that God took the seventh day off, so the angel should try to follow suit.

But when Crowley had asked why  _ Tuesday _ and not the more traditional Sunday, Aziraphale just muttered something about the importance of not losing all of one’s marbles and going “wacko.”

So Tuesday it was. 

“Aziraphale,” he said, by way of greeting. 

“Crowley,” said the angel. He was sitting cross-legged on a reed mat. A basket of chamomile, marigolds, and sunflowers sat beside him. A sheaf of notes and botanical drawings were stacked neatly on the desk. “Have you seen my pen?” 

“Nope. Not since Sunday.” 

“It was just here...”

“Just magic one back up.” 

“It won’t be the  _ same _ ,” moaned Aziraphale. “I wouldn’t be able to replicate the balance, or the nib-wear, or - _ ” _

Crowley forced himself not to roll his eyes. “What’s with the flowers?” he asked, lest he hear anything else about the pen that had fallen straight to Hell through an infernal chasm. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve been doing research into the medicinal properties of native flora.” He lifted the blooms out of the basket beside him. “The humble marigold is excellent for digestion. And sunflowers, here, can be used to treat fever.” 

“And the chamomile?” 

Aziraphale paused. “It makes a soothing tea,” he said. “Would you like to try some?” 

“I’ll do you one better. Been a while since we’ve had dinner together, hasn’t it?” said Crowley.

Aziraphale’s brow knitted together. “Has it really been so long?” 

“About a hundred years,” said Crowley firmly. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

Crowley had. He’d given it a few tries during the fourteenth century, but circumstances had always conspired to ruin any dinner plans. A peasant uprising here, a papal schism there, and before you knew it, you’d cancelled yet another evening last-minute to go gallivanting across the continent, putting out fires. Or lighting them, as the case might be. 

Normally, Crowley was all for mayhem. But decades of non-stop rioting and dinner cancellations weighed on the psyche. He could only take so much disappointment. 

It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault for the cancellations, either. It was his  _ job _ to suppress riots and sort out the papal line of succession. And Aziraphale had been the only angel in the entirety of Europe. 

Crowley couldn’t even take credit for all of the chaos. No, that had been mostly Daeva - 

He could not suppress the twist in the stomach that followed the lie. 

It was  _ Daeva _ , he told himself fiercely. He hadn’t had a single, bloody hand in the fourteenth century. 

But Daeva was nowhere to be found, lately. Crowley did not know where the other demon had gone. And as long as she didn’t spring out from under a bush, he did not care. 

“Well,” he said, “my presence is required at a wedding today.” He did not mention that his presence had been requested not by the bride and groom, nor their families, nor even Downstairs. The demon had carried out some reconnaissance to convince the father of the bride to extend him an invitation. A hefty sack of cacao seeds from his emergency stash was nearly as effective as an honest-to-Satan demonic intervention. 

“I see,” said Aziraphale slowly. He put down his flowers, and stood up. 

“It would be a shame if, oh, they were unable to consummate their marriage,” continued Crowley. “Or if the turkey was burned, or if the matchmaker tripped and cracked her head open whilst carrying the bride -” 

“I’ll go with you.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” said Crowley delightedly. 

“No, I really must insist,” said Aziraphale. The angel stood up. “It’d be irresponsible  _ not  _ to go.” 

Crowley sighed dramatically. “If you must,” he said. 

##  ∽⧗∼ 

The wedding went off without a hitch. The old lady matchmaker did not drop the bride while carrying her in the winding, torch-lit procession to the banquet at the groom’s house. The incense bowl did not spill and light their wedding clothes on fire as the matchmaker tied the newlywed’s sleeves together. And most miraculously of all, none of the couple’s ex-lovers stood up to protest the union. 

Then the feast began. First came the light dishes. Salted avocados. Smoked fish from Lake Texcoco. Maize porridge spiced with cinnamon and anise. Sweet potatoes, steamed in clay pots. Chayote and jicama, sliced paper-thin. 

Then subtlety went out the window, and course after course of tamales and stone-roasted turkey, squash stuffed with chiles, beans fried with amaranth seeds, and casseroles of rabbit followed. Each dish was heartier than the last, and accompanied with endless baskets of tortillas and tomato salsa. Cool pulque and warm xocoatl flowed like water. 

Crowley picked at his food. On the other hand, without the distraction of squalling infants or human sacrifice, Aziraphale ate each course with gusto. Unfortunately the angel’s willpower failed him when it came time for dessert. Crowley had actually expected Aziraphale’s resolve to crumble when the absolutely massive casseroles of rabbit had come out, but then again, he was not sure when the angel had last eaten a proper meal. 

The newlywed couple had long disappeared by the time the final course arrived - flat little honeycakes, garnished with sliced guavas. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale. He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin, but made no move to start on the honeycake. “That went well.” 

“You’re not done yet,” said Crowley.  _ This _ was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He’d have to invite Aziraphale to dinner  _ again  _ if he didn’t succeed in inspiring Gluttony tonight. An occasional meal together to trade favours or intelligence was not uncommon, but two in a row was rare. And three? Deeply suspicious. Aziraphale would have to be as stupid as an inchoate cactus to not realize that Crowley was up to something. 

“No, I think I might be,” said Aziraphale. “I’m quite comfortable right now. Any more and - well -” 

“In for a penny, in for a pound?” suggested Crowley. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “My corporation will burst at the seams. It’s not ready for this sort of exertion. I haven’t been so full since before the famine.” 

Crowley’s heart sank with dread. “The famine?” he said. 

“1315, or thereabouts,” said Aziraphale. “It was a cold spring that started it all. Maybe the continent could have handled one bad harvest. But there were  _ twenty years _ of cold winters and wet summers. There was barely any sun. And - er - I think I saw Famine, a few times. Riding on a thin, dark horse. Poor beast was nearly a skeleton, really -” 

Crowley hadn’t forgotten those years, as hard as he might have tried. The peasants had slaughtered the draft animals for food, and eaten the seed grain for next year. When the heavy spring rains swelled the rivers, the cattle drowned, but their bloated corpses were still picked to the bone. Children were abandoned or orphaned with equal frequency. Brigands roamed the countryside, striking down travellers for a few scraps of bread. And all around had been the stench of desperation.

“If only Famine had not stayed for so long, nor ranged so widely,” sighed Aziraphale. “He usually only sticks around for a season or two, or in a single country. Certainly not for so many years, in so many countries.” 

Crowley said nothing. 

“I’ve always wondered who lit his beacon,” continued Aziraphale. “Who summoned him from - well - from wherever he was.” 

“It wasn’t me,” said Crowley suddenly. 

“I didn’t say it was,” said Aziraphale.

“But you were thinking it,” said Crowley. 

“No, my dear, I wasn’t -” The angel reached out tentatively for Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley shied away. “It was Daeva,” he said. “Daeva lit the beacon.” 

He had been en route to lunch with Aziraphale. The angel had promised that there was an “absolutely scrummy” rabbit pottage to be had in that far-flung corner of the Holy Roman Empire, but Crowley was beginning to doubt that any pottage was worth such a trek. It was a cold winter’s night. Snow blew across the fallow fields of rye and barley and oats. Last autumn’s harvest was safely stored in brick silos, dotted like little huts across the rolling hills. And at a crossroads, he’d run into Daeva.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said warily. 

“Likewise,” she said. The kerchief on her head did not quite conceal the grey feathers beneath. In her right hand, she held a torch whose flame did not waver in the winter storm. 

“How’s the City of Kerma doing?” said Crowley.

“Died two thousand years ago,” said Daeva. She stared at him, with eyes as cold and flat as the ground beneath their feet. 

Crowley could not meet her gaze. “Shame when that happens,” he said awkwardly. “I was gutted when Rome got sacked, of course, but sometimes you just need to chin-up and go on with things -”

Daeva gave him a hard stare. “Rome’s still standing. Kerma isn’t. I suppose you’re never even been.” 

“It’s in Nubia?” offered Crowley. 

Daeva looked unimpressed. The silence stretched onwards.

“Well,” said Crowley awkwardly. “What’ve you been up to?” 

“Spent some time in India, with the Guptas... then a few years with the Huns, and then a few more with the Mesoamericans.”

“I didn’t think the Huns were your crowd,” said Crowley. 

“They’re not,” said Daeva coldly. “And neither are the Mesoamericans, in case you were wondering.” 

“Oh,” said Crowley. “Then what brings you all the way here?” 

“Special assignment. Off the books.”

“From downstairs?” said Crowley.

Daeva shrugged and tilted her head at him. “My, someone’s curious today. You don’t have to pretend to care, if it’s just information you want.” 

“I’m not curious,” said Crowley. 

“You’re a terrible liar,” she said, and turned on her heel. 

If Crowley had possessed any sense, he’d probably have left her to her business at that point. But it had also been a very cold and very boring winter thus far. So he’d followed her. And, for whatever reason, Daeva hadn’t outright rejected his company. 

Daeva left no footprints in the snow. They walked for what seemed like hours through the snow. Crowley pulled his cloak closer to him, but the chill crept through all his layers. 

At last, Daeva stopped at a grain silo. It was made of stone, and sat on four stout feet so that air could circulate underneath, and so that rain would not puddle at the bottom of the silo. 

“Here we are,” she said, torch still in hand. 

Crowley looked at the silo skeptically. “You came all this way from Mexico to visit a granary?” 

“Dream a little bigger, darling,” she said. “It’s not just a granary. It’s a beacon.” 

Crowley had only heard of beacons in passing. They were very rare. Once in a blue moon, a beacon might form naturally at the intersection of ley lines. And whenever one was lit, one of the Horsemen would be summoned. “But  _ why _ would you want to light a beacon _?”  _ he asked. “Downstairs can’t have asked you to do this -” 

“They didn’t,” she said. “Upstairs occasionally asks demons to do their dirty work. This way, they get to keep their hands clean, and I get - well.” She went silent. The torchlight danced, reflected in her eyes.

“And how does the Board of Directors feel about this?” said Crowley. “We can’t secure souls from people who are already dead.”

“They’re ambivalent about it, but they’re the ones who passed the assignment down to me in the first place,” she said. “To purge corruption and start anew is part of the Plan.” 

Crowley couldn’t argue with that, especially after the Flood, and the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and the sack of Rome. But it was always a deeply unpleasant experience. “Since when do you care about the Plan?” he asked, desperate to stall Daeva. 

“Do not presume to understand what does and does not matter to me,” she said. “I’ve cared about very, very little in the past two thousand years. Least of all, the Plan.” 

Before Crowley could get another word in, she pulled open the wooden door to the silo. Her torch illuminated heaps of rye piled against the inside walls for a split second before she tossed it in. The dry grain went up like kindling, shielded from the winter winds. 

Crowley might have tried to stop the blaze, but he was torn. Daeva was an  _ Underduke _ . She was at least a hundred times more powerful than he was. She could mash his corporation into paste if the fancy struck her. He could not put out the fire, any more than a peasant pissing on a bonfire. 

He caught Daeva’s glance for a split second, as the beacon flared up against the night sky. Her eyes were not cold anymore: a terrible and desperate wildness burned within them. She swirled her feathered cloak around her, and turned into a grey raven. It cawed once and flew away, leaving nothing behind but the smell of blood and ashes. 

Nothing seemed to have changed the following day, except that Crowley had unexpectedly lost his appetite for pottage. He sent hasty regrets to Aziraphale regarding lunch the following day. Time passed, and all seemed normal as Crowley carried out his assignments. Each week seemed much like the one before it. 

That should have been Crowley’s first warning that something was wrong. Each week was as cold as the last. Winter stretched onwards, until it seemed to last an entire year. 

The brutal winter had turned into spring when he finally glimpsed Famine on his black horse. But it was a merciless spring, bringing with it rains of near-Biblical proportions. Crops rotted in their fields. Cattle drowned in swollen rivers. Peasants butchered hanged bodies pried from their gibbets. Hollow-cheeked families ate the grain they’d saved for planting, hoping that the next year would bring fairer skies. 

But all the next year brought was rain and cold and hunger. And the next, and the next, and the next. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, eyes wide. “I had no idea.” 

“Well, I didn’t tell you about it,” said Crowley. In fact, he’d told nobody about that run-in with Daeva. Why had he told Aziraphale, now, in the middle of one of the most important temptations in his entire career? The angel’s rising, palpable concern was beginning to reinforce the correctness of his original decision. 

“You told me that Beelzebub was holding impromptu team-building exercises!” 

“Did I really?” 

“Yes, you did,” said Aziraphale hotly. “I didn’t even know Famine was on the continent until  _ springtime _ .” 

“It just never came up,” said Crowley. His correspondences with Aziraphale had been sparse in the subsequent years. There weren’t many ways of saying,  _ the weather’s cold, everybody’s still starving, anyway, how are you?  _

“You should have told me,” continued Aziraphale. “I could have helped.”

“Helped with what, exactly? It’s not like we could have put out the beacon and sent Famine packing back to wherever he came from.”

“I could have helped  _ you _ ,” said Aziraphale. “It can’t have been easy, not being able to talk about it with anyone -” The angel reached towards Crowley’s arm.

The demon pulled away. “I didn’t need to. I’m fine. Didn’t get eaten by any starving peasants or anything.” 

“- especially when it wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known Daeva was off to light a beacon.” 

“I could’ve guessed,” said Crowley. “Doesn’t take a polymath to figure out that a demon’s never up to any good.” He distantly noted that the angel’s honeycake was still untouched. 

“Well, that’s not quite -” 

“Eat your honeycake,” interrupted Crowley. He did not want to talk about the famine any further - not when this was his chance to get rid of Daeva, once and for all. All Aziraphale had to do was eat the honeycake. The demon fixed the angel with a stare that hopefully said,  _ this matter is closed _ . 

“Don’t change the subject,” said Aziraphale. The angel looked like he wanted to press the issue further, but miraculously caved at the last moment. “And I’m already full.” 

“You don’t want to waste food.” 

“It’ll go to the poor.” 

“You’ll insult the cook.” 

Aziraphale looked pointedly at an old woman sitting next to the bonfire, a half-empty cup of pulque in her hand. Her head lolled onto the shoulder of the man next to her. Both were asleep. “I don’t think anything could insult her now, my dear.” 

“It’s bad luck not to eat the honeycake.” 

“You made that one up, Crowley.” 

The demon grit his teeth. Then he tore a piece off of his own honeycake and ate it. It stuck in his throat, but forced himself to make some vague noises of satisfaction. “It’s good,” he said. “Haven’t had a cake this tasty in years.” 

“Years,” murmured the angel. Aziraphale wasn’t taking the bait. Crowley doubled down. 

The second bite was easier. The cake  _ was _ sweet. Rich. Fluffy. It was the first thing that Crowley had eaten in ages that didn’t taste like blood and ashes in his mouth.

Half his honeycake remained on his plate, but Crowley reached deliberately for the angel’s. 

Aziraphale slapped his hand away. 

“You said you weren’t going to eat that,” said Crowley. There were crumbs at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t care. “I’m removing temptation from your path.” 

“Since when have you cared about my virtue?” snapped Aziraphale. 

“Since always,” said Crowley. 

“I don’t believe you,” said Aziraphale. 

“You should.” Crowley reached for the angel’s honeycake again. 

The angel moved his plate out of the demon’s grasp. “No, Crowley,” he said. “Get your own honeycake.” 

“Yours is closer.” 

Annoyance fluttered across Aziraphale’s face. The angel picked up the offending cake. He bit, chewed, and swallowed. 

Crowley checked his ring discreetly, and saw that one of the seven tiny gems had turned red. He fought to keep himself from grinning.

And then Aziraphale took another bite. “It really is quite good, isn’t it?” said the angel, almost wistfully. 

“Would you like another?” said Crowley. They ought to celebrate. Step one of the plan was now complete. He was now one step closer to never meeting Daeva at another crossroads again. 

The angel rubbed his midsection with resignation. “I think so. But with some xocoatl, to mellow out the sweetness.” 

“I think that can be arranged,” said Crowley. 


	4. Sloth, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley carries out a temptation of Sloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got too long and I had to split it in half. 
> 
> My apologies to Monty Python.

Crowley dreamed that he was circling a bonfire in a _danse macabre_. To his left was a mummy, wrapped in ragged strips of linen, with a gold Egyptian death mask. To his right was a bloated corpse in a Roman senator’s purple toga, his fingers and toes black and withered. Grey ravens swooped and cawed overhead. 

“It’s all a dream,” he muttered to himself. So what if the air smelled more vividly like blood and ashes than normal? That was probably his subconscious kicking into overdrive, presenting all manner of unsettling sensations as revenge for not having actually slept properly in several years. And the drinks he’d swilled at the wedding probably had not helped. 

The grey ravens cawed again, and dive-bombed Crowley. He let go of the senator and the mummy’s hands to swat away the feathery kamikazes. “Still a dream, ha-ha,” he said.

“Are you quite sure it’s a dream?” said the mummy. He took off the gold mask, revealing Aziraphale’s face. 

Crowley shrieked and jerked awake, limbs flailing around in the black cloak he was using as a blanket. 

It was a moment before he realized that he was lying on a pile of reed mats, which was what passed for a bed in Tenochtitlan. And, a moment after that, he realized his head was throbbing most unpleasantly. 

Why hadn’t he sobered up before falling asleep? 

Crowley tried to expel the last traces of alcohol from his semi-decorative liver, but succeeded only in intensifying the headache. He was still bereft of the bulk of his powers. That was just excellent. Really excellent. 

He stood up, still feeling dizzy. His mouth was dry. His hair felt like a family of mice had been nesting in it. 

But that didn’t matter. It was time to proceed onto the second phase of his master plan. And the second phase was just as easy as the first. 

Today, Crowley would inspire Sloth in Aziraphale. Sloth came to the angel with the same ease as diligence. 

Exhibit A: The Arrangement. The one that existed despite never having been referred to by name. The one that’d come into fruition nearly four hundred years ago, in a shared moment of understanding that only _one_ of them had to leave sunny, sunny Constantinople to carry out errands in Sweden. 

Or perhaps it had materialized three thousand years ago, somewhere around the time that they’d stopped discorporating each other on purpose. Or maybe when Aziraphale had, for the first time, _apologized_ for discorporating Crowley. 

Or perhaps it had even begun five thousand years ago, when he hadn’t bitten Aziraphale’s head off right off the bat on the wall of the damned garden of Eden. The angel’s back had been turned. He’d been distracted by the oncoming storm. He hadn’t even had the flaming sword. But, no, it didn’t quite seem _fair_ to bite an angel’s head off without first exchanging pleasantries and commiserating about the weather. 

What troubled Crowley most was that he hadn’t even been the least bit tempted to creep up behind the angel and eat him. Sometimes he wished he had. It would have made his job in the coming millennia simpler, if not easier.

The demon rubbed his eyes, fastened his wrinkled cloak around his shoulders, and set foot off the pile of reed mats. 

Right onto his pair of sunglasses. 

“Shit,” said Crowley. Why had he put them on the floor? He knelt down, inspecting the damage. The dark lenses were intact, but the metal frames were bent. The demon tried to straighten the arms of the glasses out, but succeeded only in snapping them. “Shit,” he said again. 

That was fine. Crowley stuffed the sunglasses into the waistband of his kilt. He didn’t need them to carry out Phase Two of the master plan. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

What he _did_ end up needing to carry out Phase Two of the master plan was hydration. Crowley was still fairly certain he didn’t need to rest, feed or water his corporation, but he could no longer rely on magic to dispel a hangover. So that meant drinking from the cistern outside his house to quench his thirst. The cistern was little more than a rain barrel, the water was musty, and most disturbingly, it was the most delicious thing he’d drunk in decades. 

Then he ventured into the city. The sunglasses would have been helpful at that point to protect his eyes from the blinding morning sunlight. Crowley chucked his broken glasses into Lake Texcoco while he was crossing the main causeway. If the demon was very lucky, his eyes would adjust to the brightness by the time he got to Aziraphale’s house. 

He found the angel outdoors, kneeling under his verandah. With him was a small, snotty-nosed boy. Aziraphale had slathered a foul-smelling green poultice on the boy’s scraped shin, and was wrapping the whole mess up in cotton bandages. 

“What’s wrong with him?” said Crowley, leaning against a wooden pole holding up the verandah. 

“And good morning to you,” said Aziraphale, without looking up. He looped the bandage around the boy’s leg again a few more times, and tucked the ends away neatly. “There you go, my dear,” he said to the boy. “You should be right as rain within the week.” 

“Thankyouverymuch,” recited the boy dutifully. Then he sprang to his feet and legged it towards his waiting friends. 

Aziraphale stood up and dusted off his knees. “So, Crowley, what brings you here?” The angel peered curiously at the demon. 

“Why do you assume I want something?” said Crowley. 

“You _never_ come calling two days in a row. Your cloak is a mess.” Aziraphale shook his head ruefully. “And - goodness - you’re not wearing your glasses.” 

“I’m not? I hadn’t noticed,” said Crowley. He smoothed the rumpled hem of his cloak. At least he’d been able to comb most of the tangles out of his hair. 

“Unsurprising, after all that pulque,” said the angel. 

“Nevermind last night,” said Crowley. “How’s the idea of dropping everything for a morning walk by the lakeside sound? We could get some fresh flatbread at the market and feed the ducks.” He might as well try the straightforward approach to Sloth first. It’d save a lot of work if the angel took the bait. 

Which of course he didn’t. “I really can’t, my dear. There’s so much to do,” said Aziraphale. He knelt to gather up the bandages and the mortar and pestle from the ground. Crowley bent down to help - just in case helping counted as a temptation of Sloth. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself,” said Aziraphale, and he plucked the bandages out of Crowley’s reach.

Crowley straightened up and concealed his disappointment as Aziraphale carried his makeshift medical equipment back into the hut. He should have known better than to think that Sloth would be so easy. “You seem rather busy,” said the demon casually. “I’m popping off to the Sierra foothills for a few errands. Don’t suppose there’s anything you need? Maybe a bit of balche?” 

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “I’m afraid not,” he said. 

“A blessing, then?” said Crowley. He hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t agree, since Crowley was temporarily without magic these days. He wrinkled his nose at the sharp smell of the herbs lingering on the angel’s hands, and changed the topic. “Why’re you using that mash instead of magic, anyway?”

“I’m avoiding the holiday audits you mentioned,” said Aziraphale. “It wouldn’t do to use magic for an unsanctioned healing.” 

“Unsanctioned?” Crowley glanced at the bowl of green paste and the neat bundle of bandages that the angel was carefully stowing away on a shelf. “You’re doing this for fun,” he accused. 

“It’s a matter of duty -” 

“You can’t go around healing every scraped shin on every child in the city.” 

“Of course not,” said Aziraphale, looking put-out. “That’s why I’m working on new formulae for poultices. They’ll be able to use them when I’m gone.” 

“Since when have you been interested in human medicine?” 

“Just the last few decades,” said Aziraphale. 

“Well, is there anything you _do_ need?” 

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my favourite pen around,” said Aziraphale hopefully.

“Nope.” 

“That’s a shame,” said Aziraphale. 

“Quite,” said Crowley.

They looked at each other. Aziraphale’s stare turned from curious to suspicious. “Is this about the time I had to leave Constantinople for Sweden?” the angel said abruptly. 

“Why would you bring that up?” yelped Crowley. 

“Because I know you cheated at the coin-toss.” 

“I did not.” 

“You most certainly did. I _know_ what a weighted coin looks like.” 

“But you went to Sweden anyway!” 

“Well, yes, as a good-faith gesture,” said Aziraphale. Crowley rolled his eyes. “And I suppose you’re here because your conscience is suddenly weighing on you. And that if I send you out on some errand, whatever debt you imagine exists between us will be discharged and your conscience will be clear at last -” 

“My conscience is clear as glass,” said Crowley. He ignored Aziraphale’s skeptical glance, but not the opportunity to justify his sudden altruism. “But, yes. We’d be square.” 

“I suppose I could always use some herbs from the mountains,” said Aziraphale. “The ones from the city apothecaries are no good. Not fresh enough.” He tapped his chin with his fingers. “I’ll need some emperor’s candlestick for fever, monkeypod for inflammation, and corn lily for fleas.” 

“Anything else? Some willowbark for headache? More _marigolds_ for digestion?” 

“No need,” said Aziraphale. “But I do have some if you need it.” The angel peered at Crowley, who suppressed a glare. “Oh, dear. Are you hungover?” 

“No,” said Crowley. “Right. You sit tight. Enjoy your morning. And for the love of - oh - don’t go practicing your healing arts on any more of those little urchins. You’re on _holiday_.” 

“You’re not asking me to neglect my duties.” 

“I’m asking you to relax. Kick back your heels. You’ve spent your entire time in Tenochtitlan with your nose in the king’s business or in a pile of books or - or this green mash.” Crowley pointed accusingly to the herbal paste in the angel’s mortar. “I haven’t seen you _once_ sitting on the beach with a jug of wine.”

“Well, we haven’t seen much of each other at all,” reasoned Aziraphale, but Crowley was undeterred. 

The demon racked his brain for a convincing argument, and decided to appeal to sentimentality. “Remember the last time we were in Mexico? Where we drank balche, and skipped stones in the ocean?” said Crowley. 

“I do,” said Aziraphale wistfully. 

“Good,” said Crowley. “Give that another go, will you?” 

“I’ll think about it,” said Aziraphale. There was a little spark of determination in his eyes that Crowley hoped was a newfound resolve to enjoy the Tenochtitlan dry season by lounging in a lakeside hammock. “Do you need me to give you my notes before you go?” added the angel. 

“I know my plants,” snapped Crowley. 

“No, hold on just a moment -” Aziraphale pulled up a spare scrap of parchment from his belt-pouch. Then he began furiously sketching vegetation, using the side of his house as a drawing surface. “Here you go,” he said, and handed the drawings to Crowley. 

Crowley gaped at the angel’s artistic renderings. “You’re kidding.” 

“I am most certainly not,” said the angel

The plant labelled “corn lily” had leaves and was thus recognizable as a plant, at least. But “monkeypod” was a lumpy crescent, like a sock full of pebbles. And the less said about “emperor’s candlestick,” the better. Crowley pointed at it. “That’s not a plant. That’s a -” 

Aziraphale looked down at his sketches. His cheeks turned pink. “I understand why _you_ might see it that way,” he said carefully. 

Crowley glared at the angel, and snatched up the drawing and an empty reed basket. 

“It’s a good thing you know your plants,” said Aziraphale. 

## ∽⧗∼ 

More accurately, Crowley knew his plants on the other side of the ocean. Emperor’s candlesticks, monkeypod, and corn lily weren’t herbs. They were poor punchlines to a bawdy joke. The demon looked at the shrubby plateau outside Tenochtitlan for a grand total of ten seconds before deciding that his best bet was to raid the garden of a village wisewoman. 

But the first village wisewoman had no garden, preferring to forage in the hills, and would not tell Crowley where. 

The second village wisewoman was stone deaf, or pretending to be. Crowley started miming “emperor’s candlestick,” and gave up when she shot him a dirty look. 

And he did not find a third village until late afternoon. 

It was not even a village, but an old summer palace in a river valley, perched at the edge of a towering waterfall. Fields of maize, beans, and squash surrounded the crumbling manor. It was odd to find such a grand estate so far from Lake Texcoco. But at this point, Crowley couldn’t give a damn if he’d found Camelot sitting smack in the middle of the Sierra Madre. He was sweaty, tired, and dusty. He wished for the first time in his existence that he’d worn a hat.

But there, in the courtyard of the summer palace, he found a neatly-tended garden. It was either a sculpture garden or a herb garden. Dark stone disks, each about an armspan across, were littered across the courtyard. Some were roughly hewn, and others were finely carved. Crowley squinted at one of the stones that seemed complete. Glyphs were inscribed around the disc in rings, but he couldn’t make out more than vague portents of doom. The entire disc was encircled by a serpent winding around the edge of the disc, which he approved of on a purely aesthetic level. 

But there wasn’t any point lingering around the doomsday calendars. Emperor’s candlesticks were the tall shrubs in the northeast corner of the courtyard. The corn lilies grew in the shade of the south wall. And the monkeypod tree was right in the middle of the whole arrangement, with pale leaves and pink seed pods. Crowley was right about to strip a handful of ripe pods from the tree, when he was interrupted by a farmer dressed in a grubby kilt and not much else. 

“Oi, we need those,” said the farmer. He held his spiked digging stick in his hand like a weapon. 

“For what?” said Crowley.

“For us. We haven’t got a health plan,” said the farmer. 

“And who’s we?” 

The man puffed up. “We are the Brotherhood of Prophecy. Surely you’ve heard of us.” 

“Oh, yes, I have,” said Crowley, in the hopes that flattery would distract the man with the digging-stick long enough for the demon to abscond with the stolen monkeypods. “Just - remind me, which prophecy is it? There are so many -” 

“It’s the big one, of course,” said the farmer. “The only one that matters.” Luckily, before Crowley could reveal his ignorance of the Big One, the farmer launched into a recitation. “One day, the serpent Quetzalcoatl shall return to this land. And when he does, he shall bring about a new age of enlightenment and prosperity.” 

“That sounds pretty good,” said Crowley. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, lad. It’s not gonna be pretty when it happens. The Serpent’ll be overthrowing despots. Razing the established order to the ground. ‘Stablishing new taxes. That kind of thing. Revolution isn’t pretty. Lots of people might die. But the Brotherhood is prepared!” He thumped the digging stick against the ground. “We’ve got an underground bunker in the ruins of the summer palace, and artesian wells errywhere. We’ll hunker down when the Serpent gets back, and then emerge into the new age.” 

“I see,” said Crowley, feeling nauseous. “Any idea when all of this is going to happen?” 

“Could be next week. Could be in two hundred years. Could be both, really, ‘cos this prophecy’s a cyclical sort,” said the farmer blithely. “But it pays to start early. Underground hydroponics don’t build themselves. Speaking of which, we’re always looking for new blood. You look like you’re handy with those plants, and management’s scared off the last herbalist.” The farmer looked Crowley right in the eye, and pointed at him with a large, grubby finger. “I want _you_ to join the Brotherhood of Prophecy.” 

“Again with this Brotherhood of Prophecy crap,” said a woman, straightening up out of a bush she’d been weeding. Crowley hadn’t noticed her because her dress was the same colour as the dirt. Her hair hung lank underneath her headband. “I _told_ you, we’re the Fellowship of Revelations.” 

“Fellowship makes it sound like we’re on a quest,” said the man scornfully. “But _Brotherhood_ implies a certain stability. Y’know. A constancy that only comes with the ties of a found family -” 

“ _Brotherhood_ is exclusionist!” said the woman. “Our organization is four-tenths women. The head of our order is a woman. I’d say it’s high time for a name change.”

“I didn’t vote for her on Sunday,” muttered the man. 

“Me neither, but she’s still our leader,” said the woman. 

“She’s so _bossy_ -” 

“You wouldn’t call a man bossy, would you?” 

“No, but none of the men leaders ordered us to drop everything to carve _those_.” The man gestured at the stones littered around the garden. “Why bother with those knockoffs, when the original’s in the basement?” 

“They’re legitimate licensed copies, primo collector’s items - hey, where’d you think you’re going?”

Crowley froze in his tracks, halfway between the monkeypod tree and the entrance to the garden. Their eyes all met - the man, the woman, and the demon. 

The demon broke into a dead sprint towards the garden gate, dodging doomsday calendars. The man and the woman followed. 

Unfortunately, Crowley was burdened by a reed basket of herbs and a corporation that had not sprinted with any regularity over the last several years. The two farmers were not. The woman barreled into Crowley’s legs with a flying tackle. It sent the demon and the basket of herbs into the dirt. Crowley felt his cloak tear as he hit the ground. “Ugh - gerroff,” he grunted at the woman.

“Shan’t,” said the woman, who had a death grip on his ankles. “You are now a prisoner of the Fellowship of Revelations -”

“And to think I invited you to join the Brotherhood of Prophecy,” interrupted the man, who was aiming the digging stick dangerously close to Crowley’s face. 

“You can’t take me prisoner! You’ve got no authority -” 

“We have plenty of authority,” said the woman. “We are a sovereign collective of freemen and freewomen beholden to no rulers but our own-”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, dear lord, you’re one of _those_ types -” 

“- and by the power vested in me by the Fellowship of Revelations -” 

“- by the Brotherhood of Prophecy,” interjected the man

“ - you are charged with trespass and theft - ”

“Hey, it’s not theft if I pay you,” said Crowley.

“The power of the law cannot be _bought_ ,” sneered the woman, at the same time the man said, “With what?” 

“I got a copper tajadero with your names on it,” said Crowley, though he didn’t actually. 

Now it was the man who sneered at Crowley. “We don’t take your money here,” he said haughtily. 

“Are you kidding? A tajadero is a _fortune_.” 

“A tajadero won’t help us when Quetzalcoatl ushers in the new age,” said the woman

“Then how about cacao seeds? A map to the City of Gold?” 

“Do they have universal healthcare and underground bunkers with state-of-the-art hydroponics systems?” said the man. 

“Er, yes?” 

The man spat on the ground next to Crowley’s face. “ _Nobody’s_ got better hydroponics than us,” he barked. 

“Look, there must be something you want,” said Crowley, growing desperate. He’d never live it down if he got lynched by a pair of greasy doomsday cultists. 

“Well, I’d like for my family to not have died from dysentery,” said the woman. 

“Or for my entire village to not have gotten slaughtered by the Tlaxcalans,” said the man. “But we can’t always get what we want, hm?” 

“Sometimes you can,” said Crowley. “There’s got to be _something_ I can help with.” 

“The first pillar of the Fellowship of Revelations is radical self-sufficiency,” said the woman. “We have all the _things_ we need.” 

“Your garden sculptures say otherwise,” said Crowley, with a significant glance at the stone discs littering the courtyard. “Must’ve taken a lot of time to carve all those, _and_ become self-sufficient.” 

“You have no idea,” groaned the man. “Nobody’s had a holiday since the election. And sick days are right out.” He jabbed Crowley in the ribs with the haft of his digging stick. “You got any of those under your cloak?” 

Crowley pushed himself up to his elbows. He’d tangentially involved himself in a few peasant revolts over the millennia. The revolts rarely succeeded, lacking central leadership, but nothing quite stirred the blood like a bit of pitchfork-waving. However, the demon had not personally incited any rebellions in over sixty years, since feudal relations had grown increasingly fractious after - after Daeva had lit the first beacon, right in front of him. 

He formed the thought carefully, as if its jagged edges might snag upon the edges of his mind and tear the wound open anew. Daeva had lit the first beacon. That’s all there was to it. She’d lit it. He’d watched. Anyone could have made that mistake. 

But it hadn’t _been_ anyone else. It was Crowley. And, as fate had it, only Crowley could fix it. Which started with getting the cultists on his side. “No, but I have two thousand years of experience in industrial relations. And management consulting,” said the demon. 

“Padding your resume a bit, aren’t you?” said the woman. But she’d let go of his ankle. 

“Not at all,” said Crowley. He stood up slowly, with his palms raised. “What you need to do is _unionize_ . _”_

“What?” said the man. 

“You know. Collective bargaining. Band together to increase your bargaining power with management. You’ll need an organizing committee, a list of demands, and some of your sharpest digging-sticks...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The historicity of the prophecy is very debatable.


	5. Sloth, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley returns from his errand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had mad writer's block in Chapter 8. Should be back on track now.

Crowley returned to Tenochtitlan in the late evening, with a basket of herbs at his elbow, a torn and dusty cloak around his shoulders, and a persistent throb at his temples. The cultists had argued at length about who would head the organizing efforts, how frequently the union fees should be collected, and what shortlist of demands would be made of management. 

But it would be worth it, when Crowley won the wager. He could facilitate a little labour dispute if it meant he’d never have any more awkward run-ins with Daeva. 

The demon approached Aziraphale’s house. The injured boy was no longer scampering around the communal courtyard with his friends. A light shone gently from the windows of the house. With any luck, the angel would be halfway through a jug of papaya wine. 

Crowley knocked on the door. There was no response, so he pushed it open. 

Aziraphale looked to be elbow-deep in a pile of parchments as he sat cross-legged in front of the writing table. Books were piled around him like a fortress. Crowley did not know what the angel was doing, but it did not constitute _sloth_. 

“Hello, Aziraphale,” he said icily, and dropped his basket unceremoniously. The herbs spilled out onto the packed-earth floor. 

Aziraphale looked up guiltily. “I didn’t hear you at the door,” he said. 

“You were supposed to take the afternoon off.” 

“And I did. Oh, that monkeypod looks very fresh -” 

“ _This_ is not taking the afternoon off,” said Crowley. He could barely form words to describe the chaos of the angel’s house. “This is - this is -” 

“A side project?” suggested Aziraphale. 

“I should have _known_ you’d bring crates of books with you.” 

“It’s not as if you could stop me,” said the angel mildly. 

“No. I suppose not.” Crowley rubbed his forehead and grimaced. His headache was getting worse. He grit his teeth and stood up straighter. 

But Aziraphale noticed. “Is something the matter, my dear?” 

“Yes,” said Crowley. Daeva. The wager. Labour unrest. Human sacrifice at children’s naming ceremonies. The list went on and on.

The angel stood up. “I have some willowbark around here, for tea -” 

“Again with those blasted human remediessss,” hissed Crowley. 

“Sometimes the human way is more efficient. Less taxing. I can’t be everywhere, you know.” There was a pot of water on the hearth already. The angel ladeled hot water into two cups: one with a stick of willowbark, and another with a spoonful of fresh chamomile blossoms. “There was that saying you made up - give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day, but teach him to fish and -” 

“And he’ll take the pole and beat you to death with it instead, because no good deed goes unpunished,” said Crowley, glaring accusingly at the angel. 

“That’s not really how it goes -” 

“It is now,” said Crowley. “You were supposed to go skip stones on the lake. Drink some wine.” He took his cup and poked the willowbark around. “I didn’t go on a wild monkeypod chase so that you could spend a beautiful autumn day shut in your hut. I bet you didn’t even _need_ the monkeypod.” 

“Monkeypod is an excellent reliever of ulcers and sores.” 

“And _why_ would you need to treat ulcers and sores?” 

“Well, surely you remember the Black Death.” The angel shifted uncomfortably. 

“Oh. That,” said Crowley. He couldn’t forget that if he wanted to, which he fervently did. He drank from the cup rather than meet the angel’s gaze. His stomach was twisting, and not from the harshness of the tea. 

“I’ve forgotten the honey,” fretted Aziraphale. “It’s around here somewhere -” 

“No need,” said Crowley. He took another bracing sip. Bitter suited him fine. But the angel bustled around at the back of the room regardless, sifting between little clay jars of herbs and tisanes in his search. “Is that what you’ve been working on?” said the demon. “Researching the plague?” 

“No, I know plenty about the plague,” said Aziraphale. He’d stopped fiddling with his little jars. “I’ve been looking at the wars, actually.” 

“Which one?” 

“Only the recent ones, and only in Europe.” The angel came back to the table, with a jar of honey. He doled out a generous dollop to both their cups. “The Edwardian war, the Portuguese interregnum, and the Carolinian war. After you mentioned that a beacon had summoned Famine, I wondered if a beacon had summoned War, as well.

“Anyway, the Edwardian War was the first one where War was spotted - a woman rider, in red livery, without a crest. But according to these notes by a Mongolian clerk -” the angel tapped his fingers on a narrow scroll, scribed with vertical script “- she’d been riding with the horde for the last several centuries, and having a jolly time of it besides. The only thing that might’ve pulled her to Europe was a beacon.” He stirred the honey into his chamomile tea idly, with a carved-stone spoon.

“Do you know much about these beacons?” 

“Only in passing,” admitted Aziraphale. “It’s the reason I’ve been doing research, see. But finding primary sources pertaining to the beacons has been complete shambles.” The angel looked guiltily at Crowley. “I’m sorry, dear boy. I know you intended for me to enjoy Tenochtitlan, but I couldn’t pull myself away from my work.” 

Crowley stared into the depths of his tea. It was so dark as to be black, as if it absorbed the gentle glow of the hearth instead of reflecting it. The most important goal was to get rid of Daeva. And the best way to do that was to win the wager. “Would you take a blessed break if I told you what I knew about the second beacon?” he said lightly. 

Aziraphale exhaled gustily. “At this point, yes. I’m going mad here, wondering how War was called.” 

“I can tell you how,” said Crowley. 

Crowley had begun to hear rumours of a young woman in a feathered cloak with eyes like ice about twenty years after the end of the Great Famine. It wasn’t the Last Famine - others followed, but the Horseman seemed to have gotten his jollies out quickly, and was content to move slowly through the continent afterwards, striking one or two kingdoms at a time. Trade buffered any subsequent agricultural calamities, though at high cost to royal treasuries. Yet it was not a high enough of a cost to prevent the nations of Europe from fielding armies - especially not France and England were at a perpetual impasse, bickering about who owed whom homage, who was the true heir to the French throne, and who owned the duchy of Aquitaine. 

Aquitaine was contested territory in 1337. It bordered on the southwest corner of continental France, but belonged nominally to England. Most importantly, it was a land of lush countryside and fruitful vineyards. But the French had skirmished upon the duchy borders, raiding villages, harassing merchants, and blockading ports. 

And it was at an English watchtower on the Aquitaine border where Crowley caught up with Daeva. But for all its wooden battlements and arrow slits, the watchtower wasn’t just a watchtower. It was another beacon. Crowley could recognize it by the thrum of the ley lines beneath the earth, and the air of portent that lay over the area, thick as the scent of crushed grapes over the countryside in the autumn. 

It was a warm spring evening. The other demon was approaching the storage shed at the base of the watchtower with a torch in hand. The shed held the oil supplies for the watchtower in large clay urns. 

Daeva turned as he approached. “You again?” she said irritably. 

“It’s only been twenty years since the last Horseman,” said Crowley, without preamble. “These people lost enough when Famine came.” 

“And what about you?” said Daeva. “Did you lose anything?” 

“Sleep. Dinner. About seven million souls for our master.”

“Then you know nothing of loss,” said Daeva. 

“How can you say that?” said Crowley, outraged. 

“None of your cities were sacked, their temples looted, and their very names burned off the face of the map,” said Daeva. She turned to the rolling fields under the watchtower’s guard. “This duchy is doing well enough, isn’t it? Famine was too good for these people. Too slow. Too peaceful.”

“I wouldn’t call _starving to death_ or _robbed by hungry brigands_ peaceful.” 

“It’s more than what they deserve,” said Daeva. 

“There’s no point in killing them all,” pleaded Crowley. “We can’t damn souls if they all die horribly first. We have to give them a chance to _choose_ damnation, first.” 

“What would you know of choice, or free will? We’re demons,” countered Daeva. “There’s a Plan. We have our orders. And mine are to light the second beacon.”

“That’s not true,” argued Crowley. “We have a choice.” 

A look of amusement was emerging on Daeva’s face. “Are you trying to tell me something, Crowley?” 

Crowley swallowed hard. “Give them a few more years, Management won’t notice if War shows up tomorrow or next century. They’re hardly in any fit state to fight, right now. Just - don’t light the beacon yet. Please.”

“And what will you give me in return?” 

“What do you want?” asked Crowley, a lump rising in his throat. He forced himself to meet Daeva’s silvery eyes. He could surrender Rome or Paris or Venice to her influence. It’d be a small price to pay for a little more time - 

“Do you have any cities like Kerma?” said Daeva. “Do you remember its black-stone temples, with the faience-tile floors, so fine it feels like sacrilege just to step on them? Or the boulevard of stone lions, guarding the merchants and the camels and the children as they pass?” 

“I’d never been,” muttered Crowley. 

“That was one of my cities, two thousand years ago,” said Daeva. “It’s dust now.” She smiled faintly. “In that case, do you have any cities like Taxila? Have you ever smelled its spice markets on a summer afternoon? Have you ever attended an astrology lecture in the university amphitheatre, shoulder-to-shoulder with the greatest minds on the continent?” 

“No,” said Crowley. 

“Of course you haven’t. Taxila was one of mine, too. Until the Huns razed it.” Daeva licked her lips. “My cities are full of ghosts. And so yours shall be, too.” 

Before Crowley could protest, she tossed the torch into the oil-stores. There was a puddle of tallow on the ground, where one of the jars had cracked. 

Crowley turned and ran. Behind him, he heard the hissing as the fire spread across the dirty, oil-soaked straw. Then the jars exploded. 

He didn’t look back until he was well clear of the watchtower. The crackling of the flames could not drown out the archers’ screams. Daeva was gone, but for the smell of blood and ashes. 

War rode forth the next morning, teeth stained with blood. Across the sea, the English king declared war on the French usurper. 

Crowley’s tea had gone cold. 

“You tried to stop her,” said Aziraphale kindly. 

“ _Tried_ being the operative word,” said Crowley bitterly. “Didn’t succeed, though, did I?”

“Edward of England and John of France signed a truce in 1360.”

“Yeah, after _twenty years._ By that time they’d dragged nearly every other kingdom into the mess. Only stopped when the English ran out of arrows and the French king got captured. And they started up again the moment they needed cash.” Crowley laughed harshly. “There’s no business like war. It’ll go on until they’ve burned down all the villages in the south of France. War’s not like Famine. She won’t get bored as easily.”

“Well, you couldn’t have succeeded,” said Aziraphale. “It was part of the Plan.” 

“The Plan,” repeated Crowley. 

“Nobody can fight the Plan,” said Aziraphale. “If Daeva hadn’t lit the beacon, someone else might have lit it. And if you’d destroyed the beacon, another would have popped up elsewhere. Maybe it would’ve been a French prison, or an English galley that went up in flames -” 

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” said Crowley.

“You did everything you could have done,” said Aziraphale. 

“Except prevent Daeva from calling War.” 

“Do you know what Sloth is, Crowley?” 

Crowley gaped at Aziraphale, wondering if the angel had cottoned on to the terms of the wager, before deciding that it was a mere coincidence. “Please,” he said. “Enlighten me, as if I weren’t _intimately_ familiar with Sloth.” 

“It’s said that Pride is the greatest sin, but I’ve always thought that Sloth was the saddest,” began Aziraphale. 

“Why? There’s nothing sad about kicking one’s heels back and having a nice glass of wine.” 

“Well, a bit of well-earned idleness is technically Sloth as well,” said Aziraphale. “But the ultimate form of Sloth is despair. To lose hope completely, and to succumb to one’s worst impulses. Perhaps Pride led to the Fall, but Sloth leads to much worse. One who succumbs entirely to Sloth has lost themselves.” 

“Could we skip to the point of this?” said Crowley. 

“I’m just trying to say that - well - it’s enough that you tried to stop Daeva from lighting the beacon,” said Aziraphale. “It’s the trying that matters.” The angel looked like he wanted to say something else, but turned his gaze uncomfortably into his mug of tea instead. 

Which was just as well. Crowley hadn’t come to the angel’s hut to get lectured about the nature of the seven cardinal sins. He’d come to inspire Sloth. And given the turn the conversation had taken, he was unlikely to succeed anytime soon. The entire day had been a wash. The demon pushed his own mug away from himself. “Well, Aziraphale, it’s been _lovely_ talking to you about the fourteenth century, but I’ve got to go.” 

“Already?” said Aziraphale. 

“Not sure yet,” said Crowley. “Haven’t you got a _side project_ to work on?” 

“It can wait,” said Aziraphale. “Let me walk you home.”

“I can handle myself.” 

“Yes, like last night?” said Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow. 

“Well, I’m not drunk this time.” 

“You’ve had my willowbark tea. It could have unexpected effects on the demonic physique. Side effects of willowbark include cramps, ulcers, anemia...”

“Have you _poisoned_ me?” said Crowley. “Come on, that’s hardly sporting.” Poisoning had been off the table for at least four thousand years. 

“They’re very rare side effects,” hurried Aziraphale. “But it should ease your headache soon.” 

“Not soon enough,” said Crowley. “I need some fresh air.” 

He pushed himself away from Aziraphale’s table, and staggered outside. The night air at the Tenochtitlan elevations was cool enough to raise goosebumps underneath Crowley’s cloak. Aziraphale appeared at the demon’s elbow, wrapping his pale poncho more tightly around himself. Crowley wished the angel hadn’t come. He’d rather lick his wounds in private, regroup, and give Sloth another try tomorrow. But he was too tired to shake Aziraphale off. 

So the two of them trailed through Tenochtitlan, dark but for the gentle glow of hearths from inside the mud-brick houses and the light of the waning moon. Crowley led them on a winding path through the city, from the main causeways to the narrow footbridges between the floating gardens, and back again. 

Aziraphale stopped suddenly, in the middle of the packed-dirt road. 

“Tired?” said Crowley. “You can turn back if you want. I’m not going to trip over my own feet and drown in the lake.” 

“It’s a rather beautiful night, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale wistfully. The angel stepped off the road to take a seat on a large rock at the pebbled edge of the causeway. 

“And a rather late one, besides.” 

“We’re on holiday, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “Did you have anything else planned tonight?” 

“Maybe a touch of lurking. Conniving. Even some skulduggery. Nothing you need to bear witness to.” 

“I suppose not,” said Aziraphale. He sighed. “Speaking of which, these should help.” He passed a small bundle wrapped in a cotton handkerchief to the demon. 

Crowley took the bundle and unwrapped it, revealing a pair of dark glasses. He glanced surreptitiously at Aziraphale. 

The angel was still gazing at the waters of Lake Texcoco. “I found them on the side of the road,” said Aziraphale. “They must’ve fallen off your face on the way home from the wedding banquet.” 

“Yeah,” said Crowley. “They must’ve.” He touched the delicate wires encircling the dark lenses, turning them over in his hands. They were a perfect copy of the pair he’d stepped on, and chucked into the lake that morning. “Well, thanks,” he said, and slipped them onto his face. 

“I’m sorry for bringing up the war,” said Aziraphale suddenly. “I didn’t realize it bothered you so -” 

“It’s all water under the bridge,” said Crowley. “Can’t cry over spilled milk. Whatever.” He sat down on the edge of the causeway, with his feet in the water. 

“Even so, I think that -” 

“Aziraphale. Angel. Can we not do this now?” said Crowley. “Can we just sit here and - and pretend none of it happened?” 

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” said Aziraphale. 

They sat in silence. The lake lapped gently at the edge of Crowley’s dusty cloak, and he tried not to think about the last several decades. The blasted century would be over in a few years, anyway. By which time Daeva would be out of the picture. One way or another. 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything, but the demon could feel his concerned gaze out of the corner of his eye. Irritation rose up. Crowley hadn’t _asked_ for Aziraphale to butt his holy nose into that particular corner of medieval history. If the angel brought up _one more_ fact about the Edwardian war or the peasant revolts, Crowley was going to -

“Do you still skip stones?” said the angel. 

That threw Crowley off-balance. “Pardon?” 

“Skip stones,” repeated Aziraphale. “You know -” 

The angel clambered off his rock and bent down to the edge of the causeway, sifting through the stones at the edge of the water before selecting a flat, rounded one. Then he flicked the rock across Lake Texcoco. The stone shattered the reflection of the waning moon into silver ripples once - twice - before disappearing before the surface. 

“That was terrible,” said Crowley. 

“I haven’t had much time to practice lately,” said Aziraphale. 

“Neither have I, but I can do better than _that_ ,” said Crowley. He picked up a stone and spun it across the surface of the lake, counting seven skips. Then, he turned and smiled smugly at Aziraphale. 

To his surprise, the angel was smiling too. There was a light in his eyes that spoke as to more than the reflection of starlight or whatever astronomical bodies deigned to shed light over Tenochtitlan that night. “That was nearly enough to impress a child,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Kids nowadays aren’t impressed by anything. And it was better than yours, which is what matters.” 

“Is it really?” asked Aziraphale. 

“Absolutely,” said Crowley. “I’d seen better efforts from three toddlers stuffed in a monk’s habit.” 

“Somewhat unlikely, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. He picked up another stone, and cast it across the water. 

Crowley counted four skips, and shook his head. “Not even close. Bet you won’t be able to get more than seven.” 

“I’m merely warming up,” said Aziraphale. “Just you wait, serpent.” 

“I have all night,” said Crowley. 

Neither of them were keeping count by the time the dark sky lightened to blue and grey and then gold, and the first rays of the sun peeked up behind the hills surrounding Tenochtitlan.

“Oh, would you look at the time,” said Aziraphale, in the tone of someone who knew precisely what time it was. He patted Crowley’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I have an appointment with the king, my dear.” 

“Right,” said Crowley. The demon was lounging against a rock, having wadded up his cloak into a pillow. “Have fun.” 

“One tries,” said the angel. “Crowley - you’ll be all right, won’t you?” 

Crowley shrugged without looking at Aziraphale. “I’m already all right, thanks.” And he was. His mind was as blissfully still as the surface of Lake Texcoco before dawn. In an hour or so, the men would paddle out in their dugout canoes full of nets, and the women would sieve algae out of the water to bake their flat cakes, and the children would splash at the lake’s edge with carved wooden boats. But right now, the lake was as smooth as a mirror. 

“If you’re sure,” said Aziraphale. “Well, you know where to find me if you need - oh, if you need someone to thwart you.” The angel stood up and walked away from the edge of the lake. His footsteps grew fainter and fainter. Crowley twisted his head around to see which way he’d gone, but Aziraphale had already disappeared from sight. 

Crowley turned his eye back to the lake. He fiddled with the ring on his finger, twisting it as he watched the long streaks of pink and gold reflected in the water. His headache had gone, but he had not yet decided how he’d attempt Sloth again. 

A glint of red from the ring caught his eye, and he raised his hand to his face, to inspect the gem. Then, he realized that not one, but _two_ of the gems was red. 

Crowley stared at the ring. 

When had the second one turned red? When, exactly, had he inspired Sloth in Aziraphale? 

The other five gems were still colourless. Crowley had a two-sin lead over Daeva. He’d half-won the wager. Everything was still going according to plan. He could still have the other demon banished from the face of the Earth. 

Yes. He’d win, if it was the last thing he did.


	6. Greed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley recruits minions.

Now that Gluttony and Sloth were out of the way, Crowley moved onto the third stage of his four-step plan. He had a choice of Envy, Wrath, Lust, Greed, and Pride. 

Wrath was too risky. Aziraphale had been rather gung-ho about fighting evil a few thousand years ago, but time on Earth had mellowed him out. The angel was slow to anger these days, and more likely to fix the demon with a look of disappointment than to smite him into next Tuesday. All the same, he’d rather not push his luck. 

He wasn’t a fan of Envy. Who was? Nobody  _ enjoyed _ coveting their neighbour’s house, wife, or goat. Crowley had been left with a bitter taste in his mouth every time he’d incited Envy in one of his assigned targets. A sin was pointless if it wasn’t even enjoyable. 

Lust, on the other hand, was perfectly fine and good. Crowley wasn’t above inciting lust to fulfil his infernal assignments. And he’d even dabbled in the sins of the flesh independently - first academically, and then recreationally. The novelty had eventually worn off, though. Once every couple years he might be tempted to check if there had been any new developments in the field, but - well - sex wasn’t like pastry design. Some things, like butter and sugar and flour and leavening could be arranged in infinite permutations. And some things could not. 

Also, Crowley doubted that the angel was even capable of physical desire. So, like it or not, that door was entirely closed to him. 

Pride was an option. Aziraphale had many things to be proud of. He seemed to take pride in his work, but it would come off as more than a bit suspicious if he clapped the angel on the back and congratulated him on healing the next urchin’s sprained ankle. Especially after Crowley’s prior insistence that they were on  _ holiday _ , and needn’t talk shop. Aziraphale’s growing collection of Bibles with poorly calligraphed margins was another promising fire to stoke, but it wasn’t a collection that could be brought up in casual conversation without arousing suspicion. And, of course, the angel seemed to take pride in every time he got one over on Crowley. But that would involve a show of humility, and Crowley’s own pride wasn’t ready to take such measures yet. 

That left Greed, and if Aziraphale’s increasingly cluttered house was any indication of his tendency to accumulate material objects, Crowley would eat his pitchfork, pointy-end first. 

Crowley could have effected a temptation of Greed simply by just waving a book around Aziraphale’s face. But his simple plans had gone rather poorly of late, as evidenced by his multiple attempts at Gluttony and Sloth. It was unlikely that Aziraphale would accept a gift from a demon, even from -  _ especially from _ a demon with whom he had a long-standing acquaintance. He’d suspect there were strings attached. 

This time, he’d try a different approach. No more grisly children’s naming ceremonies. No more wild-turkey chases in decrepit summer palaces.

And for that, he needed accomplices. Accomplices with a flexible moral code, a talent for improvisation, and not much dignity to speak of. 

Were Crowley in Europe, he might slip a herald some simple instructions and a few silver pieces, or tack a notice up in the public square. But discretion was of paramount importance in this goon-search. What if Aziraphale overheard the town crier’s advertisements, or spotted the demon’s adverts in the market?

So that was why Crowley was personally canvassing the market square for prospective henchmen. His cloak was wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he threaded his way between the market stalls. The streets were, in theory, wide enough for pedestrians to pass each other, but stacked cages of live turkeys, the protruding hafts of stone axes, and dangerously high piles of firewood reduced movement to nearly single-file. 

Crowley spotted a trio of men chugging maize beer in a shadowed nook between stalls, half-concealed by a display of woven wall hangings. Their eyes darted back and forth between the passerby until a merchant appeared in a vivid green cape. The pouch at the merchant’s waist bulged with cacao beans as he maneuvered through the crowd. 

One of the trio elbowed the others, nodding towards the merchant’s purse. Then, two of the men stepped out into the street, while the third slunk down the lane in the opposite direction to the merchant. 

The two men in the front bumped into each other purposefully. Beer splattered onto the ground. 

“Watch where you’re going, bud,” said one of the men, thrusting his empty cup in the other’s face. 

“Who you calling bud, pal?” retorted the other, knocking the cup away. 

“Who you calling pal, friend?” 

They shoved each other. The cups fell to the ground, forgotten. 

The merchant looked agog at the two men fighting in the street, before turning on the spot and walking swiftly in the opposite direction. But he quickly found his escape blocked by a gathering crowd. A fight made for good morning entertainment. “Excuse me - coming through,” muttered the merchant, as he shouldered his way out of the crowd. 

And right behind the merchant was the third man, picking pockets and lifting purses as he went, and stuffing them all into a sack underneath his poncho. 

Crowley was struck by a sudden compulsion to ruin the entire dance. He turned away, so that his face could not be seen, and called, “City guard’s coming!” 

The entire crowd scattered, but not quickly. The audience struggled to squeeze out of the alley. Reed animal cages went tumbling and broke. Wild turkeys broke free of their prisons, adding their perturbed squawks to the cacophony.

Crowley paused for a moment to savour the jostling carnage of feathers and elbows. He couldn’t stay for long, though - the three thieves had slipped into a narrow crevice between the stalls. 

Crowley followed them through the passage, emerging into a secluded nook behind the market stalls. The three men had arranged their stolen purses on the ground, and were counting the cacao seeds stolen from the merchant’s pouch. 

“Hello, gents,” he said. “How do you three feel about -” 

The three men looked up and froze, like deer in front of an oncoming carriage. Crowley could almost see the gears of their minds shudder to a stop, as if he had jammed a rod into the finely-honed mechanisms of a clock. 

Presented with this new challenge, the trio reverted to their original plan. 

The tallest man shoved the others. “Watch it, bud!” he said. 

“Who you calling bud, pal?” 

“Who you calling pal, friend?” 

Crowley groaned and turned away as the three of them began fighting in the dirt again. 

Flexible moral code - check. Not much dignity to speak of - check. But not much talent for improvisation. 

Crowley returned to the main road through the market, keeping an eye out for potential accomplices. 

At the crossroads, he spotted a small group of the priestesses of Xochiquetzal, goddess of love and beauty. Long ribbons of cloth streamed through the air behind them from slim wooden rods as they danced. A basket before them was full of cacao beans, semiprecious stones, and tokens from admirers. Their hair was worn down in loose curls. The heady scent of honeysuckle and yucca flowers surrounded them. Crowley sneezed. Priestesses of Xochiquetzal weren’t just priestesses. More often than not, they were practitioners of the world’s oldest profession. 

“Hello, ladies,” he said, planting himself in front of the women. 

“Well, hello,” said the leader of the group, an impressively buxom woman with a flower crown. 

“Would you be interested in a job?” said Crowley

“Depends on the kind of job,” said the priestess.

“A very  _ special  _ kind of job,” he said. 

“I’m all ears,” said the priestess. She tilted her head and smiled coyly at Crowley. 

Crowley smiled back, and leaned forwards. Then, in a whisper, he outlined his plan to trick Aziraphale into embracing Greed. 

That earned Crowley a resounding slap from the priestess. Her cheeks were pink with fury, and her flower crown was askew. “How  _ dare  _ you,” she gasped. “You - you  _ scoundrel _ .” 

The other priestesses flocked around the head priestess, comforting her, and glaring at Crowley. Two of them raised their beribboned dancing sticks like clubs and advanced threateningly on Crowley. 

“Forget I asked,” said Crowley. He backed away with his hands raised, and fled into anonymity of the crowd. He’d massively underestimated the flexibility of the priestess’s moral code, and the magnitude of their perceived dignity. 

The demon wandered further, towards the seedier, dustier corners of the market. The sun was high overhead. Crowley was beginning to sweat. He wondered if it was a side-effect of the no-magic clause of the wager. Now and again, he spotted one or two entrepreneurial souls. A man ran a shell game at the market’s edge. Two women wearing dresses festooned with shells told fortunes. And one enterprising merchant was literally selling snake oil, guaranteed to cure all ills, restore youth, and grant the ability to make love like a leopard to boot. Crowley glared at the last man, who merely shrugged. 

The demon passed them all by. Crowley did not have time to assemble a motley band of misfits. He needed a group that came with its own synchronicity. For a simple job, a band of goons could be taught the choreography of crime in a single night. But things like  _ trust _ and  _ thinking twice before backstabbing an acquaintance _ took years, if not lifetimes to master. Crowley knew that from firsthand experience 

At last, the demon came upon a group of actors. It was the same troupe that had performed at the infant prince’s naming ceremony. But they were dustier, and so was the small audience that had gathered around them. And they seemed to be taking more liberties with the source material.

“Blood for the blood god,” howled the war god Huitzilopol. “I will drink the stars and eat the moon, and this land shall be mine forevermore.” The actors playing the celestial bodies cowered appropriately. 

“Like hell you will,” sneered Quetzalcoatl, through a serpent mask. “The only blood that’s gonna be spilled around here is yours.” 

The two actors launched into a fight with their wooden clubs. Most of their blows connected only with the air. With a move that would be utterly impractical in combat, Quetzalcoatl tangled her club with the war god’s, sending both weapons flying towards the audience. Disarmed, they grappled on the ground, until Huitzilopol feigned punching Quetzalcoatl in the jaw multiple times. “Blood for the blood god,” screamed the victorious war god. 

Quetzalcoatl staggered to her feet, clutching her jaw. “It’s not over,” she panted. “I’ll be back. And when I do, a new day will come.” 

“But not today,” finished the war god. He clubbed the serpent god over the head with his wooden club. Quetzalcoatl fell to the ground. What looked very much like chunky salsa spilled out over the stage in the vicinity of the actress’s head. 

The audience cheered wildly. 

“Now remember,” said the war god, “Huitzilopol needs offerings to keep darkness at bay.” He bowed and offered a wide reed basket to the audience, who tossed cacao beans and trinkets towards the stage. 

Crowley waited until Huitzilopol had accepted his final encore, and the audience had fully dispersed. 

Quetzalcoatl sat up, and pulled her mask off. Tomato paste was streaked through her curly hair. “How’s the take?” she asked. 

Huitzilopol lifted up his mask, revealing a face that looked like it had been mauled by a wild turkey. He joined her on the ground and sifted through the contents of the basket. “Pretty good,” he said. “If we keep this up with two shows a day, five days a week, we’ll be able to fund our musical in, oh -” 

“How long?” said Quetzalcoatl. 

“Maybe ten years,” said Huitzilopol sheepishly. 

Quetzalcoatl fell backwards onto the ground, arms spread out above her. “Ten years,” she moaned. 

“Face it, the musical’s a money pit,” said Huitzilopol. “But we could make a good money off our slapstick. Your husband wouldn’t blame you for choosing to make a living instead of - well -” 

“Maintaining my artistic integrity?” said Quetzalcoatl sarcastically. 

“I just thought you might not want to make a musical since he’s passed. It was your dream together.”

“And it’s still  _ my _ dream. I’m gonna make it happen, even if I have to scrimp and save for the next ten years.”

“If you’re sure. But it might’ve helped if we didn’t buy the fancy costumes for the last gig. Or if we got paid in something other than exposure.” 

“Well, the king invited us,” said Quetzalcoatl, still staring blankly at the sky. “He didn’t mention that it was a kid’s birthday party.” 

Crowley stepped out of the shadows. “It was a  _ naming ceremony _ , actually,” he said. 

Quetzalcoatl sat up. “Do I know you from somewhere?” she said.

“I saw your performance at the palace,” said Crowley. He glanced at the war god and back again. “Made some changes to the programme, have we?” 

“The original version wasn’t selling,” she said. “Gotta play to the crowd.” 

Crowley glanced at the basket on the ground. It was miserably empty except for a small handful of cacao beans at the bottom, and some stone beads. “That’s certainly working well,” said Crowley. 

She rolled her eyes. “You some sort of theatre critic?” she asked. “No wonder you’re dressed like  _ that _ .” 

Crowley ignored the jab. “What if I told you that you wouldn’t have to pander to the masses for the next ten years?” 

“We don’t do anything involving children or animals,” she said immediately. 

Crowley waved that suggestion away. “Nothing of that sort. How do you feel about experimental improvisation, for a small audience, with, ah, modern subject matter?” 

“I feel potentially quite wealthy,” she said. 

“Excellent,” said Crowley. He offered his hand to the actress. 

She took it firmly. “I’m Tozi,” she said. 

“Crowley,” said the demon. “Let’s get to work.” 

##  ∽⧖∼

Crowley, Tozi, and her motley troupe of actors milled around outside of Aziraphale’s hut that afternoon. 

“Now remember,” said Crowley, “you’re family members of a wrongly convicted prisoner. You need to convince the ang- scholar to cough up a hundred cacao seeds to bribe the guards and secure the prisoner’s release. Don’t appeal to the goodness of his heart. Promise that once the prisoner is released, he’ll grant the scholar access to his personal library. Or his apothecary. Any questions?” 

Tozi raised her hand. Crowley pointed at her. “Tozi. Go!” 

“It costs more than a hundred cacao seeds to bribe the guards,” said Tozi. “At least three hundred, actually.” 

“Seriously?” said Crowley. 

Tozi rolled her eyes at Crowley. “Rich people have no sense of the economy,” she said. 

“Fine. Demand a thousand cacao seeds, if you want,” said Crowley. “Any  _ other _ questions?” 

“We don’t have backstories! Or motivations!” shouted the grizzled actor who had played Huitzilopol. 

“Your backstory is that I paid you a bunch of cacao seeds to come here today,” said Crowley. “And your motivation is that you get to keep any of the cacao seeds you squeeze out of the scholar.” 

The actors murmured amongst themselves. “Can do,” agreed the actor. 

“Excellent,” said Crowley. “And under  _ no circumstances _ shall you leave without relieving him of his money. Ready?” 

“Wait,” said Tozi. She stood on her toes and did a headcount. “Tlaca’s missing.” 

“You snooze, you lose,” said Crowley. “Let’s roll.” He pulled his aura back to his skin, flipped the hood of the cloak over his head, and fell in at the back of the group. 

The troupe snaked its way over to the angel’s house. Tozi knocked on the door. 

“Just a moment,” called the angel. And a moment later, the door opened to Aziaphale’s stunned face. “Goodness, there’s so many of you -” 

“Goodsir, we beg your assistance to free a wrongfully convicted man,” cried Tozi. Her hair hung in artfully dishevelled curls around her face, and her face was convincingly streaked with moisture-tracks. 

“Wrongfully convicted?” said Aziraphale. 

“Indeed, goodsir, our cousin was arrested for speaking his mind about the king of Tlacopan,” she said. 

“And you’re his -” 

“His cousins, yes,” said the actor formerly known as Huitzilopol. 

“All of you?” 

“Our grandparents got busy,” said the actor. He winked broadly. 

“You don’t say,” said the angel, looking out at the various faces of the acting troupe, none of which bore much familial resemblance to the others. 

Luckily, the troupe leader returned to her expositional spiel before Aziraphale could ask any questions about the family tree. “If only you could provide us with a modicum of cacao seeds, we could free our dear cousin, and spirit him to safety.” 

“How many?” said Aziraphale.

“Two thousand cacao seeds,” she said. 

The angel blanched. “Are you sure you need that much?” said Aziraphale faintly. 

There was no mistaking a Sidonese Prisoner scheme, no matter how amateurish the execution. But it was a surprisingly flexible setup for carrying out temptations of Greed. The moment that the targets’ greed overrode their common sense, Crowley had won. And, in cases where the Sidonese Prisoner scheme failed, particularly when the person or persons carrying out the scheme were particularly raggedy looking - Crowley still won, because the target was miserly clinging on to their moneybag rather than giving alms to a destitute up-and-coming entrepreneur. 

He literally couldn’t lose. The demon had a patent pending for the gambit at the Infernal Office of Intellectual Property. 

But naturally, Crowley preferred his Sidonese Prisoner scheme and his temptation of Greed to succeed in tandem. “Mention the personal library. Full of bookssss,” hissed Crowley. 

Nobody heard him. “Yes,” said Tozi firmly. “Our cousin is very influential and rich. He’ll pay you back, of course. With interest.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze fell to her dusty dress. “Your cousin doesn’t seem to be taking care of his own family -” 

“Because he’s been putting money into the dowries of his daughters of marriageable age!” shouted the grizzly actor. 

“They’ve got huge assets, of the stupendously titted variety,” added Tozi. 

“Er, I’m afraid I’m not really looking for a wife nowadays -” 

“The bookssssss,” hissed Crowley. “Talk about the books. Or the apothecary -” 

“He’s got a map to the City of Gold!” said the grizzled actor, in a sudden burst of misguided inspiration. 

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Did Crowley hire you people to -” 

Crowley swore under his breath. He hadn’t expected word of his ploy at the palace to spread across Tenochtitlan. In any case, Crowley wasn’t going to wait long enough for Aziraphale to finish his thought. It was time to pull out the big crossbows. The demon pitched his voice high, pulled the hood lower on his head, and called, “He’s got first-edition Aztec prophecy stones!” 

“Prophecy stones?” said the angel, with renewed interest. “Those are very rare.” 

“They’re in mint condition. Unearthed right outside our cousin’s village.” 

“You wouldn’t happen to know what the prophecy says,” said Aziraphale. 

Mercifully, Tozi picked up on that train of thought, because Crowley’s falsetto was mightily straining his vocal cords. “It’s about the second coming of Quetzalcoatl, to usher in a new age,” she chimed in. 

“But only our cousin knows where it is now,” continued yet another actor. “If you let him out, he’ll be able to share it with you.” 

Crowley beamed in approval under his hood. It was nice to be working with real professionals again -

“Along with his map to the City of Gold -” 

He’d spoken too soon.

“- and his marriageable daughters, who have huge tits -”

“- shut  _ up _ ,” shouted Crowley. Aziraphale started, and Crowley realized he had forgotten to disguise his voice. He had to close the deal quickly. “Our  _ cousin _ would be happy to turn the stone over to a discerning scholar such as yourself,” said Crowley, resuming a prepubescently squeaky voice. “As soon as we can arrange payment for his freedom.” 

“I don’t know,” said Aziraphale. “I’m travelling, see, and another stone would be difficult to take with me.” 

“Don’t let practicality hold you back on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” said Crowley. “It’s round. You can roll it. Or hire people to carry it for you.” 

“Well -”

“This stone represents more than mundane matters of  _ luggage allowance _ and  _ storage _ ,” said Crowley, though it was difficult to convey gravitas with the shrill tone he’d adopted. Next time he’d disguise himself as someone with a nice baritone voice. “It is the epitome of Mexican mysticism and mathematics. The culmination of five thousand years of civilization.” 

“When you put it that way,” sighed Aziraphale, “how can I refuse?” Crowley’s heart leapt in triumph. “Now, if you’ll just come in, I’ll rustle up the necessary funds to ransom your cousin... what’s his name, again?” 

Crowley scrambled for Aztec names. 

“Ixtaca,” said Tozi decisively. 

The Aztec word for  _ secret _ . Real subtle. Crowley ground his teeth.

“Ixtaca,” repeated Aziraphale. “A good name, for a good man. Come in... do watch your step.” 

Crowley held his tongue as he spilled into the house, along with the rest of the actors. He’d nearly won. All he needed to do now was close the deal. He was so close - 

Then he saw a stone prophecy wheel in the middle of the room. A sudden chill fell over Crowley, even though Aziraphale’s house was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with members of the acting troupe. The stone was the same as the ones from the summer palace, where the demon had collected herbs only two days prior. How could that be, unless - 

All thoughts of victory slipped from his mind, like sand through his fingers. “Where - where did you get that?” stammered Crowley. 

Aziraphale turned and beamed at the demon. “Oh, this? It’s a funny story, actually. Just this morning, I was approached by the most curious girl, who insisted she had the most wonderful collection of prophecy stones in the entire country. She showed me this stone from her most recent expedition, and - well -” Aziraphale spread his hands and shrugged. 

The demon’s worst fears were confirmed. The “curious girl” could be none other than Daeva. While Crowley had been crashing weddings and picking flowers and skipping stones, she’d assumed leadership of the cult he’d encountered in the mountains, ordered them to carve duplicate prophecy stones, and sold one to Aziraphale. His heart raced, and the demon felt strangely detached from reality. He needed to do damage control. “Well, what?” said Crowley.

“It would have been beyond irresponsible to let her cart around that magnificent specimen around in a rickety old sledge,” said Aziraphale sheepishly. “Not to mention that it would just fit  _ so perfectly _ into my own collection of prophecies, between the fresco from the Oracle at Delphi, and my  _ Prophecy of Neferti  _ tablet, I think. It was best for everyone that I took ownership of the stone.” 

_ Envy. _ Coveting thy neighbour’s prophecy stone. Crowley felt like his head had just been rung like a bell. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t done. “I already have so many prophecies already - the Egyptian prophets, in particular, were quite prolific... but I couldn’t resist adding just one more item to the collection.”

_ Greed. _ The bell tolled once more against Crowley. 

“I mean, just  _ look _ at the finesse of the carvings! It indicates that the end of the world is coming in 1618, which is perhaps a bit early... but not completely off the mark, perhaps,” continued Aziraphale blithely. He patted the stone fondly. “This will be the crown jewel of my library at home.” 

_ Pride. _ The bell tolled a third time, and sent Crowley’s stomach tumbling into freefall. He checked his ring discreetly, turning it around on his numb finger. Two of the stones had turned red, but three of them were now grey, as well. Daeva led the wager three to two. The Sidonese Prisoner scheme had finally failed. Crowley might as well withdraw his patent application now. There was no point advertising his failure to the Infernal Office of Intellectual Property. 

“Your cousin’s stone will match this other stone quite nicely,” said Aziraphale. “Now, where did I keep the cacao seeds?” He reached into his pocket to pay the actors. 

“Forget it,” said Crowley abruptly. “The deal’s off.” 

“But what about Ixtaca’s prison sentence?” said Aziraphale, standing up. “You surely can’t be thinking about letting him rot in there -” 

“Ixtaca can rot in Hell,” said Crowley, slowly backing out of the angel’s house. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to attend to -” Like formulating a new strategy to knock out Wrath and Lust before Daeva got to them, for one. 

He bumped right into a floppy-haired young man. “Sorry I’m late, guys, I got caught up in traffic -” said the actor. “I couldn’t find you, I thought you’d be outside.” He looked guilelessly around. “What’d I miss?” 

“Everything,” growled Crowley. 

“Oi, what’s up, Tlaca?” said the grizzled actor. A choir of  _ good to see you _ and  _ how you doin’ _ rose up from the acting troupe, as they turned to greet the wayward actor. 

“What on Earth -” said Aziraphale, eyes darting back and forth around the “cousins.” 

Tozi smacked the grizzled actor. “Stay in character,” she hissed. She looked towards Crowley for guidance, but the demon had already slipped out the door. 

Crowley was nearly out of the cul-de-sac when he spotted Daeva. She was leaning against a tree, with her arms crossed. “Going somewhere?” she said. 

“None of your business,” said Crowley. He hurried to pass the other demon, but she stood in front of him, blocking his path. “Don’t you have a doomsday cult to oppress? How’d you even rig their elections that quickly?”

“I’m management,” said Daeva. “Whereas  _ you _ lost three sins in a single morning. Not so prideful now, are you?” 

“There’s still two left up for grabs,” said Crowley. “It’s not over ‘til you’re dragged back down to Hell by your stupid feathered cape.” 

“That’s not going to happen, because you’re going to lose,” said Daeva. She shook her head. “You already know that, don’t you?” 

“Shut up,” said Crowley. 

“You have the most field experience of all operatives on Earth by far. Every victory and every defeat should make you stronger. But quite the opposite has happened. You cling to your past victories like rubies, and to your losses like festering wounds. You’re afraid, and you’re weak. Where is the demon who showed Christ all the kingdoms of the world? Where is the demon who tempted Herod the Second?” Daeva’s mouth twisted. “Where is the demon who brought the four -” 

Crowley punched Daeva in the jaw. It took the Underduke’s small frame by surprise. She staggered backwards. Blood trickled down from the corner of her mouth, and she licked her lips. “Wrath’s not a good look on you,” she said. 

“Nor on you,” said Crowley. “What did Tenochtitlan ever do to deserve you?” 

“Nothing. Because despite what you might think, Wrath is not my sin,” said Daeva. She swept her arm at the buildings around her. “It makes no difference to me if I were in Kyoto, or Hangzhou, or Venice.” Crowley winced at the mention of the last city, and a shadow of a smile passed over Daeva’s face. “Do you know why you’re going to lose, Crowley?” 

“I don’t have to listen to thissss,” hissed Crowley. He shouldered Daeva aside, and stalked down the street towards the lake. 

There was a small whirl of grey feathers at the edge of his vision as an ash-grey raven swooped back in front of him. It stretched out its wings, and then Daeva stood in front of Crowley again. “You’re going to lose because you’re afraid of losing,” she said. “You still have  _ so many  _ things left to lose.” 

“And you’re not afraid?” said Crowley. 

Her smile turned brittle. “After what I’ve seen, nothing frightens me anymore,” she said. But she stepped aside to let Crowley pass, her eyes boring a cold, dead tunnel through him the whole while. 


	7. Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tells a story.

Crowley didn’t go back home that night. He didn’t need to lie down and stare at the four walls of his house. Instead, he skulked aimlessly through the dark alleyways of Tenochtitlan, straining all his senses for any hint of Daeva’s next temptation, all while trying to decide if he’d rather give Lust or Wrath a go. Wrath won out narrowly. He’d provoked Aziraphale’s Wrath before, and lived to tell the tale. Lust was a murky, messy unknown in that respect. Better the devil he knew, rather than the devil he didn’t. 

But it was midmorning before Crowley hardened his resolve sufficiently to redirect his pacing to the courtyard before Aziraphale’s house. The peaked straw roof and the raggedy cream verandah loomed over the demon. His stomach was churning, and his skin felt two sizes too tight. Sure, he hadn’t incited true Wrath in Aziraphale since the time he’d spilled tea on an illuminated manuscript two hundred years ago. He’d been cursed out of the angel’s cottage, and sheepishly invited back a few days later for a very awkward apology. 

Nowadays, Crowley was more careful around Aziraphale’s books, and Aziraphale had reined in his temper somewhat. They still frayed each other’s nerves, and exchanged passive-aggressive insults whenever the occasion demanded. But perhaps that was the source of his discomfort - that their recent exchanges were merely passive-aggressive and not straight-up wrathful-aggressive. They hadn’t had a fistfight in centuries, and not a real discorporation in millennia. 

Well, it wasn’t too late to cross that Rubicon again. He could think of this as a return to tradition. He could smooth over any hurt feelings afterwards with a jug of xocoatl and a basket of honeycakes. 

But he could not smooth things over if Daeva won. There’d be no xocoatl. No honeycakes. Merely eternity, to be enjoyed far, far away from Earth. Would he spend it moping in the Recorporation Office with Nyx and Bob, sculpting faces on meatsuits? Would he request a secondment to the Andromeda galaxy, and take his resentment out by blowing stars up? 

Or perhaps he’d write a novel. Maybe Melkor would deign to be his editor. Crowley could see it now:  _ The Fall of Tenochtitlan, or, How I Dug My Own Metaphorical Grave _ . It’d be a bestseller. He could hold book signings across the seven circles of Hell. Then he’d write a prequel.  _ Gardening Through the Ages: A Cautionary Tale.  _ The prequel would be a critical and commercial failure. He’d spend his days living in a cardboard box underneath a bridge, drinking cinnamon-flavoured mouthwash and washing his feet in a river of fire. Demons would pass and shake their heads sadly, saying, “And that’s the Serpent of Eden. An awful waste. If only he hadn’t lost his bet with Daeva. If only he’d had the spine to inspire  _ Wrath _ in that blessed angel.”

Well, when he put it like  _ that _ , the choice was easy. 

Crowley gathered his courage, and burst into Aziraphale’s home without knocking. 

Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his cross-legged position behind his desk, scattering pens and paper and bowls of dried herbs across the floor. “Oh - Crowley,” said the angel, clutching his chest. “Be a dear and knock next time, won’t you?” 

“Can’t make any promises,” said Crowley flippantly, and he kicked the door shut behind him with such force that an inkwell leapt with fear off the edge of Aziraphale’s desk and smashed itself on the ground. Iron gall ink soaked into the plaster floor. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale, flustered. “To what do I owe the occasion?” 

“Nothing. Just came to check how my hereditary enemy is doing,” said Crowley, making a show of inspecting the angel’s accommodations and finding them wanting. The herbs that he’d collected for Aziraphale a few days prior were drying at the hearth of the fireplace. And the prophecy stone that Daeva had sold the angel stood arrogantly in the middle of the house. Crowley felt a surge of hatred towards it. 

Aziraphale looked puzzled. “Again? Well, I’m fine, thank you, just working on some research -”

“Again with the research,” sneered the demon. “You writing about the beacons again?” He poached one of the sheets of parchment off the desk, and swept his eyes over the angel’s perfect cursive. Phrases jumped out at him then and again -  _ winter of 1315 _ and  _ Western Schism _ and  _ interregnum  _ and  _ Horsemen _ . Crowley’s heart stuttered. 

Aziraphale snatched the parchment back, tearing the edge where Crowley had been holding it. “It’s not ready yet,” he said indignantly. 

“Thought you’d heard enough about the Horsemen,” said Crowley. He tucked his empty hands back under his cloak, where Aziraphale couldn’t see them shake. 

“It’s not about the beacons or the Horsemen anymore,” said Aziraphale. He smoothed the torn edge of the parchment, but did not mend it. “It’s - it’s about how the humans are recovering from everything. They’re terrifically adaptable, really -” 

“That’s fantastic,” said Crowley. His hands were no longer shaking. In fact, he could barely feel them at all. “Who the Hell is going to read it?” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked. “Well -” 

“Nobody is going to read it,” said Crowley. “It’s going to moulder on your manager’s desk for the next several centuries.” 

“It’s not for Gabriel.” 

“Probably for the best,” said Crowley, “so that it doesn’t lower his opinion of you any further.” The words spilled out of him as quickly as he could think of them, before he could have second thoughts about the consequences.

“He’s said my reports are perfectly thorough -” 

“Thoroughly boring.” 

“- and this one’s not for Gabriel, it’s for you!” finished Aziraphale, standing up behind his desk. 

Crowley forced himself to laugh. “Me? Why would I want to read  _ that _ ?” 

“The last few decades haven’t been the easiest for either of us,” began the angel. 

“You don’t say.” 

“I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed anything sooner, regardless of the circumstances. You seldom ate. You barely slept.” Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s elbow. The demon flinched away. “Forgive my presumption, but I fear you haven’t quite been yourself for a while.” 

Crowley was not ready for the conversation to turn to his health and well-being. The time had come to just get Wrath over with. To rip the bandage off. It would be painful, but at least it would be quick. “I’m quite myself. I’m more myself than I’ve ever been. Just watch me.” He threw Aziraphale’s manuscript to the ground. Then, he picked up a book off a crate at random, opened it to the middle, and attempted to tear it right down the spine. But without magic, he hadn’t the strength to tear the leather cover, so he settled for tearing off pages in handfuls and tossing them at Aziraphale. 

Crowley tore a few more pages from the book, and dropped the abused leather husk to the ground. Then he looked up at Aziraphale defiantly, waiting for the angel’s wrath to emerge. Historically speaking, Crowley would be ejected from the premises forthwith.

But Aziraphale didn’t even look down at the sad, empty covers of the book. “Oh, Crowley,” he said. “Sit down. I’ll make us some chamomile tea.” 

“I don’t need tea,” snarled Crowley, more in frustration than anger. He strode over to the prophecy stone in the middle of the house. Concentric circles marked the beginning and the end of each era. The serpent Quetzalcoatl would descend upon the land, one day, and bring the old world to an end. Maybe that’d happen in four hundred years. Or two hundred. It didn’t matter. He put his hands on the stone and pushed. “There,” said Crowley, as he strained against the stone. “There’s your  _ prized prophecy stone _ . You must’ve been so happy when you bought it off that travelling merchant, nevermind who she is and why she sold it to you -” 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. 

“Shut up,” said Crowley. He pushed harder, and the stone fell to the ground with an almighty crack, and split in half. 

“Sit down, Crowley,” said Aziraphale softly. He wasn’t even looking at the stone. 

“Does nothing make you angry? Is there nothing you care about?” shouted Crowley. He kicked Aziraphale’s desk in anger. Belatedly, he remembered he was wearing sandals. The demon bent double and clutched his foot. Blasted Mesoamerican footwear. He missed wearing shoes, real shoes - 

“You’re bleeding, my dear,” said Aziraphale. 

“I’ll bleed all over the floor if I want to,” said Crowley. He refused to sit, hopping over to the mud-brick wall and massaging his foot. His toenail was cracked, and the floor was spotted with a few droplets of blood. But he barely felt the pain in his foot, over the dull throbbing in his temples, growing until he could hear the roar of his heartbeat in his ears. 

If Aziraphale was so insistent on asking him what was wrong, then Crowley would give it to him. He’d intended on taking that secret to his theological grave. But time was short, and it seemed that nothing else would kindle the angel’s wrath. “I never told you how the third beacon was lit,” he said. A strange, cold calm was spreading through his chest, and he sat down on the reed mat opposite to the angel.

“I suppose you didn’t,” said Aziraphale. A trace of fear flickered in his eyes. Perhaps the angel had always suspected the truth about the third beacon. And Crowley had done his best to ignore that set of facts, too, for the sake of their long-standing acquaintanceship. Well. Now the time had come to smash open that Pandora’s box. He could deal with the fallout later. Maybe in a few centuries. Maybe never. Chances were high that Aziraphale would expel Crowley from his hut, and never forgive him. But Crowley could not have hidden the truth forever, letting it gnaw at his insides like a hungry rat. 

“The third beacon was in Sicily,” he began. 

Beacons were, in theory, rarer than a two-headed calf, and more difficult to find than a polar bear in a snowstorm. Most came and went without ever drawing notice of either Heaven or Hell. But Crowley had encountered two beacons in the span of only a few decades. He knew what their pull on the ley lines felt like. He knew the heft of portent in the air, like the weight of air in advance of a storm, even if there wasn’t a wisp of cloud in the sky. And he knew how to find them. He carried out his assignments even more half-assedly than usual, declined lunch invitations from the angel in Rome, and spent every spare hour trying to find the tremors in the ground that heralded the appearance of a beacon. Crowley intended, at this point, to destroy the third beacon before Daeva could light it. 

At last, he tracked the third beacon down in the port of Messina in 1347. It was an abandoned stone lighthouse at the edge of the city, perched on a crumbling cliff. Crowley could see a flicker of firelight at the top of the tower, through the rain-soaked darkness. In a vague corner of his mind, he remembered the last, unanswered letter that Aziraphale had sent him. The angel was running errands in Sicily, so if Crowley was in the area, might he be partial to a plate of arancini? But the demon banished the thought from his mind as he hurried up the stone steps of the lighthouse. 

Daeva was already waiting for him, torch idly in hand. The kindling beside her was fresh and dry. 

“Good. You made it,” said Daeva. The feathers on her head and her cape were perfectly dry. 

“How’d you get here first?” asked Crowley. His cloak had offered little protection against the driving rain, and his clothes and hair were dripping wet. He took his glasses off and rubbed the dark lenses against the cuff of his tunic. 

She clucked her tongue. “I see we’re skipping the salutations tonight,” she said. “Very well. An arrogant little bird gave me the assignment to light the Beacon. It’d be remiss of him not to provide directions.” Her eyes were pale and cold and dull, like a drowned man in an icy river. 

“Well, you can’t light it,” said Crowley. “I won’t let you.” 

“How would you stop me?” said Daeva. “I’m an Underduke. My orders come directly from the highest authorities. You’re nothing but Beelzebub’s errand-boy.” 

Diplomacy was going nowhere, as expected. Crowley pulled a loaded crossbow out from under his cloak, pointed it at Daeva’s heart, and released a bolt.

The feathered quarrel landed solidly in the Underduke’s chest. She gasped at the impact and staggered backwards. One hand was pressed on her wound, and the other one still held the torch. Crowley dropped his crossbow and lunged at her.

“Not so fast,” she breathed, before Crowley could close the distance. The torch was poised over the kindling. “Come any closer, and I’ll light the Beacon.” 

Crowley assessed his options. Daeva was only a few steps away. He might reload the crossbow and shoot her again, but what if that took too long? He might be able to ram her off the edge of the tower, but what if she dropped the torch before he reached her? And if the beacon was lit - 

The stakes were too high. Visions of the starving brigands and bloodthirsty soldiers and burning fields of grain filled his mind. He froze, unable to act. 

Daeva’s wound stopped bleeding, and she lowered her hand. “Good choice,” she said. But she still hovered the torch over the kindling. “Put down the crossbow.” 

Crowley bent down, slowly, and set the crossbow on the ground. “Please don’t light it,” said said hoarsely.

“Oh, Crowley,” said Daeva. “I’m not going to light this one. You are.”

“What?” 

“Did I stutter? You’re going to take this torch. You’re going to light the beacon.” 

“I’m not going to light it,” said Crowley. 

“Would you like to know what happens if you don’t light it?” 

_ No _ , thought Crowley, but the response was stuck in his throat, and all he could do was stare mutely at Daeva. 

“All manner of things occur,” she said. “I could have you demoted for what you just did. I could have you reassigned to the Recorporation Office. Most likely, I’d just hunt you down and murder you, again and again. I would be your shadow that haunts you through every joy and every sorrow. You’ll sleep with one eye open, and wine will taste like ashes in your mouth.” A terrifying spark of satisfaction replaced the deadness in her eyes as she spoke. 

“And what happens if I -” The end of Crowley’s sentence lodged itself in his throat.

“I let this transgression slide, and we go our separate ways. Demon’s word,” she said, and raised her free hand, palm forward. “For as much or as little as it’s worth.” 

Crowley said nothing, still going over the possibilities in his head. 

“Remember that if you don’t light it, someone else will,” said Daeva. “If you destroy this beacon, another will rise in its place. Perhaps in France, or in England. That is the nature of the beacons. All of this is part of the Plan. And you can’t fight the Plan, after all.” She winked at him, and set the torch gently on the ground beside the pyre. “You’ll make the right choice, won’t you, Crowley?” she said, leaning backwards along the parapet of the lighthouse. 

Crowley made up his mind. He sprinted at Daeva and shoved her, as hard as he could, over the edge of the parapet. 

Daeva tumbled backwards towards the ground. But at the last moment, her wings snapped out from her back. She flapped back up, so that she was eye level with Crowley. 

“Choose wisely,” she called. The words were muffled in the rain. “I’ll be watching.” 

Then she turned around and disappeared into the darkness, behind the thick veils of pouring rain.

The torch still burned on the ground, as Crowley tried to make up his mind. He could light it, and bring a third Horseman to the continent. He could leave it, and be hunted down by Daeva until the end of time. And Daeva would end up lighting the beacon anyway. 

The choice was logical. If he lit the beacon, then Daeva would be satisfied with his compliance, and she’d leave him alone. 

But try as he might, he could not pick up the torch. He could not kick the torch into the awaiting pyre. It burned low in the autumn drizzle, stones wet from the rain as it trickled in through the timbers of the lighthouse roof. 

In the end, Crowley spread his own wings and fled from the beacon, in the opposite direction that Daeva had gone. The torch was still burning on the ground when he left. It would lend the illusion he was still mulling the choice over, and buy him enough time to disappear, before the rain leaking through the lighthouse roof extinguished it. 

But that wasn’t what happened. Not five minutes after Crowley had left the lighthouse, he finally dared to look over his shoulder, and he saw the beacon shining brightly through the autumn rain. Perhaps there had been a stray wind that blew a spark over from the torch to the kindling, or a dry patch on the floor that caught fire. Whatever the case, Daeva did not come for him the next morning. 

But a Genovese cargo ship did. It docked in Messina, crewed by the dying and the dead. Pestilence was first to disembark, with pale, bloated cheeks and pale, pus-stained robes. Straggly hair hung from his head, as he surveyed the bustling docks impassively. 

That winter, and the next five winters, the Black Death spread across the continent like rot. 

Crowley’s cup of chamomile tea had stopped steaming by the time he finished his story. “There you go. That’s what happened. I lit the third beacon,” he said. “I brought the third Horseman to Europe.” 

“You didn’t,” said Aziraphale.

But Crowley was prepared for the angel’s protests of his innocence. “I followed her orderssssss,” he hissed. “I brought that cargo ship to Sicily. And then the looters brought Pestilence to Genoa and Venice and Rome, and then to France. Portugal. England. It all started with me. The blood of fifty million stains my hands, Aziraphale, as if I’d killed them all myself.” He spread his arms out from his chest. “So do your worst, angel.  _ Do your worst. _ ” 

Aziraphale put down his own cup of tea. “That’s not what happened,” he said. 

Crowley was perturbed by Aziraphale’s calm. He doubled down before he could lose his nerve. “I lit the third beacon. And I’d have lit the fourth, if I’d found it.” 

The angel shook his head. “That’s not true. Death can’t be summoned like the other three Horsemen. He’s just  _ there.  _ Like good and evil, or sin and virtue, or - oh - even the Almighty, if you could say such a thing.” 

The demon’s thoughts whipped through his head, too quickly to grasp. Aziraphale was missing the point entirely. “Fine. But Pestilence was still all me,” he said. 

“That’s not true, either -” 

“Haven’t you been listening at all?” snarled Crowley “I lit -” 

“You didn’t light the third beacon,” said Aziraphale. “I did.” 

“What?” said Crowley. His mind screeched to a halt, and his arms dropped back down to his sides, like leaden stumps. 

The angels’ eyes were resolute. They did not belong in a scholar’s face, but Aziraphale was not a scholar, no matter what his shape might suggest. “I lit the third beacon, Crowley. I brought Pestilence to the continent.” 

“But - why -” 

“Well, I sensed you might be in the area, and I followed you to the lighthouse to invite you to lunch in person -” The angel looked momentarily sheepish, before the hardness returned to his eyes. “But then I heard Daeva speak to you, about the beacon, and the Plan. So when you left the lighthouse, and the beacon unlit, well - it was part of the Plan, wasn’t it? So I did what had to be done.” 

“You did what had to be done?” said Crowley. “The Hell you did!” The cold was gone from his chest, replaced with a growing rage. 

“We can’t fight the Plan, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “The Plan dictated the third beacon be lit. If you hadn’t done it, someone else would have. Would you rather Daeva have found that you disobeyed her, so she could have hunted you down until the end of time, so you would never know a moment of peace again?” 

“There had to be another way,” said Crowley. “I would have found another way!” His heart was beating so quickly, he thought it might burst. “Were you ever going to tell me that you lit the beacon? Or were you going to just let me think I did it forever?” 

“I didn’t know -” said Aziraphale. Embarrassment was returning to his face, softening his features. He fiddled with the feathered fringe of his poncho. “It’s not a thing that comes up easily in conversation, especially when we’ve so busy in the past few years - you didn’t even mention the beacons until the wedding -” 

“Well, it does bother me,” shouted Crowley. “And it should bother you, too! But here you are, mucking around with your herbs and your tea and your books without a care in the world.” His head felt light, and the house looked like it was spinning around him, the walls closing in on him. “How can you sit here, like everything’s fine? Don’t you regret any of it?”

“I regret not realizing that the beacons weighed on you so heavily. I regret not finding you in Sicily afterwards,” said Aziraphale. “But the act of lighting the third beacon? No, I don’t regret that at all.” The conviction in the angel’s voice was absolute and unshakeable. Aziraphale had been uncertain about the Plan or the nature of the Fourth Horseman, but he was not uncertain about his lack of regret. And that only incensed Crowley further. 

“What’s  _ wrong _ with you? Is it because it was part of the Plan? I’ve had it up to  _ here _ with Plans,” said Crowley, chopping his hand in the air over his head. “I’ve had it with beacons, and Daeva, and the Horsemen. And most of all, I’ve had it with  _ you _ and your blessed research and your first editions, withholding key information and trying to make me  _ tea _ , as if that fixes  _ anything  _ -” In a fit of fury, he hurled his full cup of tea against the wall of Aziraphale’s hut. The cup broke, and clay shards fell to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” said Aziraphale. He wasn’t even  _ looking _ at the tea-splatter on the wall. “I was trying to help you feel better.” 

A choking laugh emerged from the demon’s lips. “Feel better? If that was so easy, don’t you think I’d have done it already?” 

“Sometimes, it helps to talk to someone,” said Aziraphale carefully. 

“Like Hell it does,” said Crowley. The caution in the angel’s voice rubbed him the wrong way, made him feel like he was some toddler being tiptoed around. It would all be  _ so much _ easier if Aziraphale just lost his temper according to plan. Crowley jabbed his finger accusingly at the broken prophecy stone on the ground. “Especially with  _ that _ lying around. You didn’t have to buy it, you know. If you hadn’t bought it, I wouldn’t have had to tell you about the third beacon, and then I could have just gone on not knowing that you - you -”

“I know I didn’t have to buy it,” said Aziraphale. “In retrospect it may have been, er, a miscalculation -”

“Then why did you do it?” shouted Crowley. Nothing made sense anymore. Aziraphale’s hut was too  _ small _ , too  _ warm _ , and above all, too  _ calm.  _ The demon spun on his heel and stormed out of the house. 

Despite his better judgement, he looked back at the angel’s house. The door was still open, and beyond it, he could see the angel kneeling on the ground, head bowed, gathering the pages of his manuscript.

A sudden impulse to turn back and apologize tore through Crowley. But he tamped it down, and turned away. 


	8. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley spends money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to sex workers and Simon Cowell fans.

Crowley was in no mood to try _anything_ after his attempt at Wrath. Once Daeva accomplished her fourth temptation, she’d win. Crowley wondered how he’d be banished from Earth. Would the ground open up below his feet and swallow him whole? Would his corporation spontaneously combust, like the sons of Aaron? Or would Daeva herself have the pleasure of escorting him back to Hell? All the possibilities sounded very painful, and he’d rather not be sober for any of them. The demon went to the market and blew half of his cacao beans on a three-day supply of pulque. 

Then he lugged his two massive amphorae to the west causeway on the lake. It was midday, and Lake Texcoco was sprinkled with dugout canoes and waterfowl. Now and again, an osprey would dive in, breaking the surface of the lake into silver smithereens. It was as good of a last look as Earth as any.

“Cheers,” he said to the ducks, who bobbed obligingly. Then the demon raised the jug straight to his lips. Now he was prepared to lose the wager. 

He was not, however, prepared for the dreams that followed. 

Crowley found himself standing on the old stone lighthouse, with a loaded crossbow in his hands. The rain was heavier than ever, blurring the ocean and the cliffside into a uniform grey morass, and drowning out all other sound with its incessant pitapat. Daeva stood in front of him, with a lit torch in her hand. Her face was expressionless as she lowered the torch towards the beacon. 

It was definitely a dream. But Crowley could at least do in his dream what he’d been unable to do in Messina. He aimed his crossbow at Daeva’s heart, and squeezed the trigger. The quarrel flew fast and true, and thunked into the demon’s chest. She fell sideways, slumping against the parapet. The torch fell to the ground. Crowley kicked it away from the beacon. Then, he knelt down to the other demon’s body, to check that she’d been discorporated. Daeva’s grey hood had fallen over her face when she’d been shot. He pulled it back down, revealing Aziraphale’s face

Blood spilled out of the angel’s back onto the damp wooden floor of the lighthouse, dark as pitch in the torchlight. His hands grasped up at Crowley’s cloak, fingers crooked in pain. The angel was mouthing words at Crowley that he could not hear, as the rain’s patter crescendoed into a roar. Crowley backed away in horror. This wasn’t how it had happened - he had to wake up - 

Crowley bolted awake. He was sprawled across a pile of reed mats, limbs tangled in sheets. The walls of his Tenochtitlan house were as starkly blank as ever. He fumbled for the jug of pulque beside him and tipped it to his lips, but it was empty. Well, nevermind that. He still had some cacao beans left, to replenish his supply of drink. Crowley stood up, walked to the door of his house, and opened it. 

Pandemonium reigned in Tenochtitlan. Knights in chainmail stampeded down the streets on giant black and red and white warsteeds, hooves and swords wet with blood. Women clutched their children and wept, their faces thin from hunger, and their necks bulging with dark buboes. Flames leapt from the thatched roofs on both sides of the street, arching over Crowley like a tunnel of fire. 

Crowley froze, transfixed by the burning city. Then, he ran. As he stumbled down the road, the mud-brick houses turned to half-timber facades and grew taller. Thatched roofs darkened into wooden shingles. The packed-dirt road transformed into cobblestones. The townsfolk’s clothing changed, too: skirts and tunics became fuller and heavier. But the smell of blood and ashes only grew stronger and stronger. 

Because Daeva was dead ahead. She oversaw the city’s ruin from above, borne aloft by her ragged grey wings. The feathers on her head were crested like a halo. And she pointed at Crowley with a single, accusatory finger. 

Crowley slipped on the blood-splattered cobblestones and fell backwards. Daeva swooped down at Crowley. Her eyes were blank, and her fingers had lengthened into jagged grey talons. He threw his hands up and shut his eyes - 

And woke up again, thrashing about in something cold and wet. The demon opened his eyes. His cheek was pressed into the ditch on the side of the causeway. His glasses were cracked and his cloak was more grey than black. But it was a ditch, and not the mildewed linoleum lobby of Hell. And his jug of pulque was empty. Which meant that Daeva had yet been unable to secure a fourth temptation in the last three days. And if Daeva had failed - there was hope for Crowley yet. 

Crowley disguised himself as a vagrant, which wasn’t difficult, given that he’d not bathed in several days, and that his cloak was practically stiff with grime. Over the course of the next day, he tailed Aziraphale and observed several of Daeva’s attempts to clinch victory by inspiring Wrath in Aziraphale. Daeva started with small annoyances, like tripping the angel in a market, hiring urchins to throw tomatoes at him, and ensuring that his favoured xocoatl vendor had run dry. But Aziraphale brushed off those attempts with a serene smile. Finally, Daeva set the angel’s house on fire while he was out for an errand at the palace. But before the flames even licked the thatch roof, he’d arrived home as surely as if he’d been summoned, summoned a small raincloud to put the fire out, and renewed the fire-repelling runes in the foundations. 

After that, Daeva disappeared again. It was good timing. Crowley had gotten his hopes up high enough to give the wager another shot. But not through Wrath - no, Crowley had decided to shelve that temptation until inspiration struck him again. Which left only Lust. 

Lust would, under regular circumstances, be an easy temptation. But inspiring lust within Aziraphale was a highly irregular circumstance. After five thousand years, Crowley had no idea where the angel’s preferences lay, or if he had any preferences at all. Aziraphale was either far too discreet, or more likely, had the base instincts of a pile of rocks. And not the suggestively-shaped rocks, either - neither the type longer than they were wide, nor generously mounded formations. 

But if it truly were impossible to inspire lust within Aziraphale, then there was absolutely no way that Crowley could win. So he refused to consider that possibility. 

It wasn’t as if thoughts regarding the former hadn’t crossed his mind, in brief moments of weakness. Had Aziraphale ever read the Song of Songs? Were his lips as soft and as clever as his hands? Did he taste the same way his aura smelled, like the inside of a grand cathedral, full of beeswax candles and old stones and boughs of lavender? Crowley had always brushed those notions into the corner of his mind, like broken glass under a threadbare rug, and then set the rug on fire for good measure. Those were dangerous thoughts to have, even more dangerous for the impossibility of the notion. They’d known each other for five thousand years. If something - _anything_ \- was going to happen, it would have happened already. 

But now, _everything_ was at stake, so all bets were off. 

It was too premature to think about the temptation itself. That had been Crowley’s mistake when undertaking Greed and Wrath. He simply hadn’t done enough market research. First off, he had to collect intelligence. But to collect intelligence, he needed agents. 

Over in Europe, he’d had a network of gossips and urchins who’d be willing to spill the beans about the subject of a temptation for a few coins. Crowley barely had to do any reconnaissance himself. It left him more time for his hobbies. He’d been cultivating some eye-popping tulip hybrids, before - before the Horsemen showed up. Last he’d seen his tulip project, a bunch of peasants had dug up the bulbs and eaten them. In any other century, he might’ve sent a skulk of rabid foxes after them. But when he’d surveyed his empty field, he couldn’t feel anything. What was one empty tulip field in the face of the three Horsemen?

Though now, the memory felt like a dull thorn embedded in his flesh. 

In any case, Crowley didn’t have that kind of spy network in Mexico. So he resorted to questioning the local barkeep to figure out what kind of person Aziraphale associated himself with. The notion disgusted him. Only third-rate adventurers en route to the City of Gold made enquiries of barkeeps for intelligence. Yet there he was, wearing a pair of cracked glasses and a stolen cloak tied around one shoulder, with his face freshly-scrubbed in the lake waters like some country bumpkin. 

What’s more, the cloak was _white_. Didn’t suit Crowley’s complexion at all. But, when one had recently blown half their cacao beans on a three-day supply of pulque, one literally could not afford to be choosy. 

“Have you seen a scholar lately? About this tall -” Crowley approximated the angel’s height with his hand “- wears a feathery white poncho, got a well-fed look about him?” 

“Couldn’t say,” said the barkeep casually. He was a thin, bald man, in a pulque-stained loincloth. 

At least, Crowley hoped it was pulque. “Probably orders xocoatl at odd times of day?” he asked. 

“We get all sorts of scholars ordering xocoatl,” said the barkeep. “Tall scholars, short scholars. Scholars with black hair, and scholars with _massive bags of cacao beans_.” 

The emphasis on the last few words was broadly delivered with a wink that could’ve been seen across the plaza. Crowley slipped a pinch of cacao beans across the table. Without magic, his funds were growing uncomfortably scarce. 

“Now that you mention it,” said the barkeep, tucking the beans under the counter with practised ease, “I _have_ seen a scholar matching your description.” 

“What sort of company does he keep?” said Crowley. 

The barkeep drummed his fingers on the counter of his stall. “Well...” He stopped drumming his fingers and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Crowley reluctantly slid him another pinch of cacao beans. 

“He doesn’t keep much company at all, actually.” 

Crowley leaned across the counter of the market stall and grabbed the barkeep’s shoulders. His face blurred, and for a fraction of a second, the barkeep was looking into the mouth of a murderous serpent instead of a sour-looking man with a bedsheet tied over his shoulders. “You sure?” he hissed. 

“Now that you mention it, he’s mentioned errands across the city a few times,” said the barkeep, sweating. 

“Errands where?” 

“The palace. The temple of Xochiquetzal. The floating gardens. He’s all over the place,” yelped the barkeep. 

Crowley let go of the barkeep. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” said the demon. 

He stalked away from the market. He should have tried threats far earlier. Hopefully that wasn’t Aziraphale’s influence, making him soft.

“No refunds!” yelped the barkeep behind him.

## ∽⧗∼ 

Now he had leads. The palace and the floating gardens were not indicative of anything, but the temple of Xochiquetzal - that was a potential avenue of investigation. 

Xochiquetzal was the local goddess of beauty, fertility, and love. Her acolytes were garbed in flowers and feathers, and more frequently than not, were practitioners of the world’s oldest profession. Right now, the priestesses were dancing at the market corner where he’d seen them the previous day. Their yellow ribbons trailed hypnotically through the air. 

“Hi,” said Crowley. 

The head priestess spotted the demon, and saw right through his new clothes. “You again? Out,” she barked in a voice that was heavily at odds with her flowing dress. “I won’t be part of whatever scheme you’re brewing this time.” 

“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Crowley. “I was talking to her.” He waved at the dancer on the far left. There was a decisively mischievous curve to her lips. She flipped her hair in the demon’s direction. Most importantly, he noted that the hem of her dress was worn and frayed, in comparison to her peers. 

“Zyanya?” said the head priestess. “Fine. But don’t go roping her into your scams.” 

“They’re not scams. They’re patented entrepreneurial strategies,” said Crowley.

Zyanya separated herself from the other dancers. “So, stranger,” she purred, taking Crowley’s offered arm. “What’s your story?” 

Crowley smirked at the head priestess over Zyanya’s shoulder, before promenading the dancer slowly towards Aziraphale’s house. “I hear you’re acquainted with a certain scholar,” he said. 

Her mood instantly soured, but she didn’t remove her arm from Crowley’s. “That busybody?” she said. “He’s the _worst_. Keeps poking his head in when he’s not needed, offering medical services and asking nothing in return.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.” 

She laughed. “Everything has a price. I prefer it when that price is stated upfront.”

“As do I,” said Crowley. He briefly ran down the particulars of the job as they walked towards the angel’s cul-de-sac. Zyanya would approach Aziraphale. She would offer him her professional services. And if he didn’t partake, then she’d do some targeted market research. As jobs went, it was simple. “Got everything?” finished the demon, stopping behind a tree whose trunk partially blocked sightlines to Aziraphale’s house. 

Zyanya pouted at Crowley. “Did you take me for an amateur?” 

Frankly, Crowley considered everyone else an amateur considering how long he’d been at the game. He was only using Zyanya to test the waters. He couldn’t afford one more stumble. “Of course not,” he assured her. “Well, chop-chop. Scholars aren’t gonna seduce themselves.” 

She whirled her skirt away from the demon, strode up the angel’s door, and knocked. 

Aziraphale answered a few seconds later. “Zyanya? Whatever’s the matter?” 

She flashed him a winning smile. “Am I not allowed to pay my favourite scholar a visit?” she said. Her hip was cocked to one side, and she trailed a finger down the side of the angel’s jaw. Crowley rolled his eyes at her lack of subtlety. He’d chosen the wrong priestess for the job. Might as well throw in the towel - there was no way that Aziraphale would go for _that_ \- 

Aziraphale gently pushed her hand away. “Well, come on in,” he said graciously, and the two of them disappeared into the house. 

Crowley waited outside, fiddling with the silver ring and straining his ears for any scraps of conversation, all while trying very hard not to think about what Zyanya was doing inside the house. Hours passed. His joints grew stiff from standing nonchalantly in the copse of trees down the laneway. 

It was dark when Zyanya emerged from the angel’s house, looking shaken, along with Aziraphale. 

“Off you go, my dear,” he said gently. 

Zyanya made to leave, but at the last minute, she threw herself back at Aziraphale, wrapping her arms around him. 

“Now, now,” said the angel, patting her awkwardly on the back. “It’s getting late. Your betrothed will be worried about you.” 

Crowley couldn’t make out Zyanya’s response, but it sounded like a sob. 

At least, the angel and the priestess parted, and she set back out towards the main row, with her head bowed. 

Crowley jogged to catch up with her. “So? How’d it go?” 

Zyanya burst into tears midstride. “He - he -” 

Crowley grew worried. Had Aziraphale struck her with divine ecstasy? Shown her his wings? Expounded at length about his prized prophecy-stone? “Well, spit it out,” he urged. 

“He’s going to pay my dowry,” she burst out, and lifted her face up. Her eyes were glowing with joy. “I can quit my job at the temple, and marry Tochtli at last.” 

“That’s excellent,” said Crowley. “How about some intel?” 

A shadow fell over Zyanya’s face. “No,” she said abruptly, and turned away. 

Crowley hurried after the priestess and caught her shoulder. “I paid you to do a job,” he said. “I expected _results_.” 

Zyanya whirled around, flinging the demon’s hand off. “Aziraphale’s a fine man,” she snapped, suddenly fierce. “He’s worried about you, gods know why. As far as I’m concerned, he deserves far, far better than you. I shan’t let you yank his heart around like that.” She rummaged in her belt-pouch.

“All right,” said Crowley faintly. “But did he say anything about what he likes, or -” 

Zyanya found what she was looking for. She pulled out the pouch of cacao seeds that Crowley had paid her, and pelted it at the demon. It hit him right in the chest, and fell with a little plop to the ground. “Have a refund,” she snarled. “And don’t come looking for me again.” 

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stalked off into the night. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

So the priestesses of Xochiquetzal had more compunctions than anticipated, regarding the fine arts of seduction and espionage. That was fine. There were professionals with a looser grip on their pearls. 

Though he could afford the services of very few of those professionals. 

“You again?” said Tozi. It was morning, and she was sitting cross-legged at the dais on the street corner. She and her troupe of actors were mending their costumes: sewing fresh feathers onto the headdresses, darning the holes in the moon costume, and carefully painting angry eyes on a wooden snake mask. 

“I’ve got a job for you,” said Crowley. 

“Ooh, another one,” said Tozi. “Will it pay as well as the last?” 

“It’s more a solo part, rather than an ensemble performance,” said Crowley. He outlined the task at hand. Tozi nodded at appropriate points. 

“Right. You want me to steal information on a scholar’s love life, or better yet, a kiss.” She paused. “Do I look like some common whore?” 

“No, they’re generally better dressed,” said Crowley. 

She glared at him for a moment, and then burst out into guffaws, head tossed back. “Shit, I set myself up for that one, didn’t I?” she said, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. Then she held her hand up to Crowley, palm-up. “Payment up-front, please.”

“Er,” said Crowley, rustling around in his belt-pouch. He came up with a scant handful of cacao seeds - enough to buy dinner, but not much else. “Can I pay in installments?” 

Tozi gave him the demon a hard look. “Find,” she said. “Suppose buskers can’t be choosers.” 

“You think you could fit this in tomorrow morning?” 

“It’s not as if I’m doing anything else,” she said. “Boys, hold down the fort for me.” 

The war god saluted. “Aye aye, ma’am.” 

## ∽⧗∼ 

Crowley waited for Tozi to emerge from the angel’s house. She’d been in there all day. He didn’t know what would be worse: if she came out with her lip-paint smeared and a flush to her cheeks, or if she emerged without. 

Finally, there was a clatter of the lock. Aziraphale opened the door, and Tozi came out, laughing. “And then you sent that busybody running back to his manager, with his tail between his legs -” 

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale, smiling. 

Tozi slapped her leg. “You’re one of the good ones, Aziraphale.”

“I try,” said the angel modestly. 

“Ha,” she said. “Well, I’ll see you around, scholar.” 

“Goodbye, Tozi,” said Aziraphale. 

The two of them exchanged dramatic bows in front at the threshold, and then Tozi strolled down the path, whistling. 

“So? How’d it go?” said Crowley urgently.

“Shit, Crowley,” said Tozi, jumping. “You scared the crap outta me. Can’t go slinking around in the shadows like that.” 

“Force of habit,” said the demon. “Well?” 

“Oh, the _job_ ,” said Tozi. She belched. 

“You’re drunk,” accused Crowley. 

“Seemed like the best way to go about that business,” said Tozi. 

“And?” 

“If you pay up, I’ll tell you what happened.” 

“I’m a bit short now,” said Crowley. “Just give me a few more days -” 

“I’ve heard that one before,” said Tozi, waving him off. “Not telling you _jack_ until you pay up.” 

“Come on,” hissed the demon. “I bet you didn’t even succeed.” 

“In kissing Aziraphale?” said Tozi, and Crowley flinched. But his worry was allayed, when she continued, “Nah, I didn’t manage that. I could tell I was barking up the wrong tree.” 

“The wrong tree?” said Crowley. 

“That scholar of yours, he’s fey,” elaborated Tozi. 

Crowley was silent. His mind churned furiously. 

Tozi helpfully ventured forth into the silence. “Bent. Plays ollamalitzli for the same team.” She paused. “A friend of Xochipilli’s -” 

“I know what it means!”

“Good,” said Tozi. She slapped the demon’s back, but her expression had turned marginally gentler. “Look, I didn’t get the job done, so I’ll say we’re square.” 

“There’s got to be a catch,” said Crowley. 

Tozi doubled over laughing. “Aziraphale _said_ you’d say that!” 

“What’s that supposed to mean -“

But Tozi was laughing too loudly to hear the demon. She strode away into the evening crowd, wobbling only slightly. 

The demon set off towards his own house, annoyed at having overlooked the obvious. He’d been going about the whole business all wrong. Neither Zyanya nor Tozi had been appropriate accomplices to retain for the purposes of carrying out a temptation of Lust. It was all a matter of finding the correct person. 

When given a choice of sins in his own line of duty, Crowley had chosen to employ the temptation of lust in relatively few circumstances. That type of temptation was a performance - more so than any other sin. And there was no point in performing for an uninterested audience, otherwise it’d just turn out horribly awkward for everybody involved. Crowley only did it for those in which he recognized a kindred spirit. A priestess with ambition burning in her heart, like a red-hot coal. A prince with a devil-may-care glint in his eye. Aziraphale did not fit that profile. 

Also, if things went poorly, their professional relationship would be, at best, mightily strained for the next several centuries. It was an ill bird that fouled its own nest. 

Ultimately, Crowley found himself to be eminently unsuitable for the task at hand. It was unlikely that the demon’s advances would be well received after having committed multiple acts of property damage during his last visit to the angel’s hut. And Crowley doubted that he could even get into the correct mindset to successfully inspire lust. Aziraphale had just confessed to lighting the third beacon, without any apparent remorse regarding the fallout. Why hadn’t he told Crowley sooner? Why didn’t the subsequent plague seem to weigh on his conscience? Why couldn’t the angel just _once_ not defer to the whims of the Plan - 

Crowley kicked a shard of broken pottery into an agave bush in disgust, and took a deep breath. He had to detach himself from that seething morass of confusion. It would make what followed so much easier. Now was the time for action, not questions. 

Perhaps a person similar to Aziraphale might have the best chance at eliciting lust within the angel. One with an equal appreciation for history and old books and xocoatl. One with a blessedly kind heart. One with a kind heart and an unquenchable zeal for life. But the problem was that such people were few and far between on Earth, and Crowley’s chances of tracking one down in time to win the wager with Daeva were slim. 

Slim, but not impossible. 

Crowley picked up his pace, and hurried home to scavenge some wood and paint. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

The sign’s shaky glyphs read, “Open auditions this morning for an actor to play a romantic lead in an experimental small-scale production.” 

And written underneath, in very fine print: “No experience necessary. Compensation may or may not be provided. By undertaking this opportunity you risk eternal damnation of your soul.” 

The line snaked all the way through the market. But not only did Crowley have no shortage of auditioners, he’d also acquired an audience. 

Crowley had borrowed two turkey cages and a plank of firewood to serve as a desk, and he was sitting on a stump beneath the shade of a cypress tree. In front of him, he had arranged a steaming mug of mint tea, a few sheets of agave-fibre paper, and a sharpened stick of charcoal. 

“Alright,” he said to the gathered crowd. “Let’s get this show on the road.” Crowley motioned for the first applicant to step forwards. “What’s your name, and why’d you want this role?” 

“My name is Chimal, and I’ve always dreamed of being an actor -” began the man. 

Crowley eyed Chimal. He was decent-looking, with a cheerful sort of demeanor. But it was important to establish each applicant’s academic credentials. Those would be impossible to fake, once Aziraphale got rolling on the subject of any of his numerous interests. “What is your opinion on the role of Olmec civilization in the development of Aztec religion?” asked the demon.

Chimal looked befuddled. “Er -” 

“Next,” called Crowley, and waved the next auditioner forward. Chimal shook his head in dejection and disappeared into the crowd. 

The next man was dressed in only a kilt. He had a midsection so chiselled that an angel could sharpen quills on it. Crowley poked his own stomach. It wasn’t soft, but nobody was going to be sharpening anything on his corporation. 

“I’ve always wanted to act,” enthused the man, interrupting Crowley’s navelgazing. “What’s this role?”

“You’re going to be the romantic lead in an experimental play,” said Crowley. He felt suddenly resentful of the meathead standing before him. “The role will take gumption. A shrewdness of mind. And above all, a certain vulnerability. Do you think you have what it takes?” 

“Hold on, I only understood half those words -” 

“Next!” 

“Right, and what do you bring to the table?” said Crowley. He tapped his fingers on the plank of firewood in front of him. 

“My voice,” said the applicant. He opened his mouth and began to sing. “Hear ye all the tale of Quetzalcoatl, who was the serpent born of darkness, who brought wisdom to the people -” 

“Well, that’s nice,” said Crowley. His operatic tenor would put Bernart de Ventadorn to shame, but he wasn’t quite sure that Aziraphale would appreciate the atonality of Mesoamerican music. It raised the hairs on the back of the demon’s neck. 

The singer ignored Crowley and pitched his voice even louder. “- whose spirit was crushed by the god of war, who slunk back into the darkness upon the eve of a new age, who ”

“That’s enough,” said the demon. 

But the song was relentless. Crowley sat through a ten-minute ode to Quetzalcoatl’s triumphs and failures, beginning with the impartation of wisdom to mankind, and ending with Quetzalcoatl’s abandonment of Earth to the hands of the god of war. 

“- and one day, he shall return to lift our people into a new age of enlightenment, but it is not today!” sang the man. 

The queue behind him clapped appreciatively. 

The singer turned breathlessly to the demon. “Well? What did you think?” he said. 

The performance had given Crowley a lot of time to think of constructive criticism. Not constructive for the singer, though. Constructive for the crowd’s mood. “The best thing about your singing was that it ended,” he said. 

The public liked a good singer, but they loved a brutal critic more. Especially since half of them were made of rejected auditioners. They hooted and cheered. A flock of crows had joined the audience from the branch of the cypress tree, adding their _caws_ to the din. 

“You’re a bit young, aren’t you?” said Crowley, looking at the gangly youth in front of him. 

“I’m perfect for the young-adult market,” said the teenager. His voice cracked slightly on the last word. 

“You know all those roles are all played by men ten years older than you.” And for good reason. Crowley felt squeamish at the mere thought of casting someone barely out of puberty in any sort of romantic capacity. 

“Well, I’ve got to get my foot in the door somehow -” 

“Next!” 

“How do you feel about xocoatl?” asked Crowley. 

“Disgusting stuff, I don’t care if it’s -” 

“Next,” said Crowley. 

“You’ve already been here,” said Crowley. 

“Oh, no, zat cannot be ze case, I arrived from ze city of Texcoco just now -” 

“Take that moustache off,” demanded the demon. 

“Come on, man, I really want this gig,” pleaded the meathead. 

“Can’t hold an accent for shit,” noted Crowley. “Next!” 

The next actor was wearing a hood over his head. 

“What’s under that hood?” said Crowley. “Are you shy, or just ugly?” It was _too easy_ to think of unconstructive criticism for the applicants, especially when Crowley was surrounded by a growing crowd of spectators who seemed to await each of his insults with bated breath. 

The actor lifted the hood, revealing Tozi’s face. “Hiya,” she said. 

Crowley pointed at the sign. “ _Actor,_ not actress,” he said.

“Same diff,” said Tozi. 

“Do they not teach women to read around here?” 

“It’s never stopped me,” she said cheerfully. “Anyways, how’re you planning to pay the poor sod you hire? We entertainers have standards, now. We don’t just work for exposure. We work for _coin_.”

“You’ve had, like _two_ paying gigs. Who died and made you head of the actor’s guild?” 

Tozi looked thoughtful. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said. 

“I’m alright with working for exposure,” piped up a scruffy-looking man who was next in line. 

“No, you’re not,” declared Tozi. She kicked over Crowley’s sign. “Auditions are over!” 

“Auditions are _not_ over,” said Crowley, scrambling to right the sign. 

“Auditions are _over_ ,” repeated Tozi. “This man’s flat broke!” 

“I’ve got loads of money!” 

“He hasn’t,” said the scruffy-looking man, who was patting down Crowley’s moneybag expertly. 

The demon slapped the pickpocket’s hand away, but it was too late. The crowd grumbled and began to disperse, leaving the crows in the cypress tree as Crowley’s only audience. “You can still work for exposure,” he called. 

Tozi shook her head. “How many people have auditioned here today?” Crowley shot a murderous look at the actress, but she wasn’t even looking at the demon. “Looked like a big crowd. Bet you got your rocks off making fun of them,” she continued. 

“Because they were all _terrible_ fits for the role. How hard can it be to play a scholar?”

“It takes a certain type of person to put themselves out there,” noted Tozi. “And it’s not typically the type of person who learns everything there is to know about brewing xocoatl and Olmec history and comparative religions and whatever crap your scholar likes.” 

“It’s not that hard,” said Crowley. “You can pick most of it up by osmosis.” 

Tozi pointed at the demon. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. If it’s so easy, you ought to do it yourself.” 

“Maybe I will,” growled Crowley. 

Tozi slapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit!” 

## ∽⧗∼ 

One last time, Crowley inspected his disguise in the reflection in the communal cistern outside Aziraphale’s house. He’d changed his face to that of the most attractive meteorologist who had attended the royal naming ceremony, he of the cleft jawline and fetching freckles. His hair was now black and bluntly cropped above his shoulders. And he’d pulled his own aura back to the skin. Reluctantly, he prised his cracked glasses from his face and tucked them into his belt-pouch, revealing eyes that were brown instead of yellow. 

Only another demon could recognize him, now. The illusion would hold even under close scrutiny. Crowley had successfully employed the same technique against Aziraphale back in Itjtawy for a full month. If Aziraphale had recognized the demon tailing him, Crowley would have been smited into a wet smear on the ground. But the demon had made it through the month with his corporation intact, and some useful intel about the opposition to boot. He needn't worry about being recognized beneath the meteorologist's face. 

So Crowley breathed deeply, trying to calm his racing heart. Never send a human to do a demon’s job. That’s what he’d been doing wrong this whole time. Ever since he’d started hiring accomplices for Greed, the entire four-step plan had fallen into the gutter. This time would be different. This time, he’d succeed. 

Crowley’s insides were as tightly wound as a mechanical clock. He was ready as he’d ever be. The demon strode up to the angel’s house on leaden legs and knocked. 

And Aziraphale opened the door. “Oh, no,” said the angel. “Did Crowley put you up to this?” 

“Who?” squeaked Crowley. 

“You’re the third person he’s hired this week to - oh, nevermind,” said Aziraphale. The angel rubbed his face, and Crowley felt the tiniest twinge of guilt. He hadn’t been able to see the lines of exhaustion that crossed Aziraphale’s face from a distance, and briefly considered faking an aneurysm to abort the whole mission. 

But then the angel said, “You might as well come in.” And all thoughts of guilt were extinguished by triumph. Crowley had fooled Aziraphale. He could still win the wager. 

Aziraphale stepped aside, and the demon crossed the threshold back into the angel’s hut. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Aziraphale really can't tell that's Crowley.


	9. The Poet Envies Only the Poet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley steals a hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to iambic pentameter.
> 
> Also, if you didn't read the time-loop prequel, just know that at some point, Crowley recited some suspect poetry and Aziraphale _took advantage_ of the resetting time loop. But he felt bad about it after.

Aziraphale’s house was more cluttered than ever. The prophecy stone had been rolled from its place of pride in front of the hearth to lean against the back wall, making space for the dozens of tomes and scrolls that the angel had unpacked from their storage crates. Bunches of drying flowers hung from the wall at varying heights. Janky shelves had been mounted on the wall to hold an assortment of stone mortars, pestles, and clay jars that Crowley assumed were full of inexpertly-made tinctures and poultices. 

“Would you like something to drink?” said Aziraphale. “I’ve got - oh, a bit of mint tea, some lemongrass, chamomile... and a bit of balche and pulque, too, if that’s more your speed -”

“No, thank you,” said Crowley. He sat down cross-legged on a reed mat. Notes and pages of an unfinished manuscript were piled high on both sides of the table in front of him. It appeared that Aziraphale had redoubled his research efforts in the demon’s absence. 

“Oh, are you sure?” said the angel. He added some wood to the fire. A clay griddle was balanced on three rocks above the fire. 

“Absolutely.” 

“Very well.” Aziraphale filled a small clay pot with water from a nearby jug, and then slid it onto the griddle in the hearth. Then, he fixed the demon with an incisive eye. “Now. Let’s not beat around the bush, dear boy. What did Crowley promise you? Money? Fame? Glory?” 

“He didn’t promise me anything,” said Crowley. 

“That’s what Zyanya and Tozi said,” said Aziraphale, shaking his head. “But you mustn’t hold it against the chap. He hasn’t been himself lately.” 

“Really?” squeaked Crowley. “He seemed fine a few days ago -” 

“He hides it well - well enough that I did not notice how poorly the past years have treated him, until a week ago.” The angel turned away and prodded the fire sharply, causing flames to flare up around the clay griddle. “But here I am, going on about our mutual acquaintance, when I don’t even know your name.” He looked back at the demon, and paused expectantly.

Crowley’s mind went blank as he tried to think of a regionally-suitable name. “Er,” he said. Nothing came to mind. The pot of water on the hearth began to simmer. “Could I have a mug of tea, after all?” he said, to stall. 

“Most certainly,” said Aziraphale, beaming. He bustled to the back of the hut, collecting two cups from one of the wonky shelves at the back of the hut and fiddled with some of the herbs drying on the wall. The angel returned to the table with a pair of delicate grey cups with mint leaves at the bottom. He set the cups down, and then ladeled scoops of hot water into each of them. “There you go - and what did you say your name was?” he prompted again. 

“Ixtaca,” said Crowley decisively. 

“Ixtaca. I see,” said Aziraphale, raising an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t happen to be the Ixtaca with a dozen cousins, who was recently imprisoned in a Texcoco dungeon?” 

“Uh,” said Crowley. He’d hoped that Aziraphale had forgotten about the aborted temptation of Greed, but that had clearly been too optimistic of a possibility. Before him, he saw a fork in the path. He could dash the cup of tea on the wall, holler about rampaging badgers, and leg it. Or he could double down. “Yes,” he said. “My name is Ixtaca.” 

“Well then,  _ Ixtaca _ , tell me about yourself,” said Aziraphale. The angel sat down across the table, with his legs folded underneath him. 

“I’m a scholar,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oh, a scholar! Of what sorts?” he asked. 

“History,” said Crowley promptly. The demon was reasonably certain he could fumble through a discussion of Mesoamerican history, having been there intermittently on holiday over the last few millennia. 

“I see,” said Aziraphale slowly. “Perhaps Crowley has brought us together for a reason. Besides the obvious objective to either seduce or spy on me.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” sputtered Crowley. 

Aziraphale patted the demon’s hand. “Not to worry. He gets the better of us all, sometimes,” said the angel. “But as I was saying - I’ve been working on a scholarly treatise of my own. An empirical  _ ex post _ study of human disaster. Of how War, Pestilence, and Famine have changed the course of civilizations.” He peered at the demon, who was sitting ramrod-straight on his own reed mat, wearing an expression of polite interest. “And perhaps you might be able to offer a local perspective on the work. It’s so difficult to find peer reviewers around here...” 

The demon swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d rather spend ten years at one of Beelzebub’s team-building retreats, or debate theology with Daeva, or even help Melkor through his writer’s block, than listen to Aziraphale’s lecture on the Horsemen. But today, he was Ixtaca the scholar. And Ixtaca would have loved to hear more about the angel’s research. “That sounds fascinating,” he ground out. 

“With pleasure,” beamed Aziraphale. 

##  ∽⧖∼

Two days later, Aziraphale had narrated the last several centuries of European history as a prerequisite for further discussion of his research. Ixtaca the scholar had been transfixed by the narrative of a faraway land. Crowley, most decidedly not a scholar, had been - 

\- he wanted to say he was bored silly of hearing about events that he had experienced firsthand. He wanted to say that it’d taken all his willpower to stay awake during Aziraphale’s recount of the signing of the Magna Carta, or Marco Polo’s reception in Venice after his return from China, or even Fourth Lateran Council. 

But instead, it had taken all his willpower not to chime in with his own version of what had happened. He’d been bursting to remind Aziraphale of his part in orchestrating the parley between the rebel barons and the English king. Or how they’d been the only two people to believe Marco Polo’s tales of the Silk Road. And who could forget the after-hours negotiations they’d had the night before the Fourth Lateran Council, over a pleasant selection of Italian reds? 

“Isn’t it a bit morbid, to be drinking the blood of a dead Jewish carpenter during Communion?” Crowley had said, swirling a glass of mulled wine easily between his fingers. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of transubstantiation first.” 

“Neither can I,” Aziraphale had said, inspecting his own glass of wine to the firelight in the papal palace. “But atomically speaking, there could very well be bits of the Messiah floating around in here.” 

Crowley gagged. “Don’t ruin this for me,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think Pope Innocent keeps Democritus in his library.” 

“That’s a crime,” said Aziraphale, standing up unsteadily. “Democritus ought to have his own shelf.”

“Agreed,” said Crowley, who had been motivated less by his admiration of the philosopher and more by the chance to sneak a few more works into the library. Maybe an  _ Oedipux Rex _ or a  _ Lysistrata _ would liven things up . 

But instead of interjecting, “Remember how we made a wrong turn into the papal apartments, and the guards mistook us for Byzantine assassins?” he’d had to chime in with stupid questions that Ixtaca might ask. Questions like, “How did you travel to that many cities in a single year?” and “Paris had  _ how _ many people?” and, “What are grapes?” At least Aziraphale seemed suitably convinced that Ixtaca was, indeed, a Mesoamerican scholar and not a demon incognito. 

However, the exercise of listening to an oral history of European winemaking was nothing compared to the ordeal when Aziraphale moved on from the thirteenth century to the fourteenth. It started out innocently enough, with the start of the Avignon papacy. Crowley remembered the near-lynching of Pope Boniface fondly. The man had been a twat of the highest order - ordering the assassination of his predecessor, excommunicating political enemies left and right, and littering statues of himself all over Italy. 

But then the angel started covering the Horsemen. And there was only so much that Crowley could tune out. 

“So, that isn’t the first time that Pestilence, War, and Famine have all been spotted in the company of each other,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley nodded. He’d forced his face into a painfully studious expression, as befitted a scholar like Ixtaca. But he silently hoped with every fibre of his being that something -  _ anything  _ \- would happen to interrupt Aziraphale’s story. Maybe for hailstones to punch holes in the flat straw roof. Or for an earthquake to shake all the jarred herbs off the shelves. He’d even settle for getting bum-rushed by a legion of children with scraped shins and elbows. 

“War and Pestilence brought about the Fall of Athens, and then all three of them contributed to the Roman Crisis of the Third Century -” 

A basket of herbs behind the angel erupted into flames. Crowley yelped in surprise. 

“Oh, damn,” said Aziraphale. His head swiveled between the burning potpourri and the fake scholar. “Oh, this is terrible timing -” 

“Timing?” said Crowley stupidly. 

But Aziraphale wasn’t listening. He swept a pile of books off a wooden crate, lifted up the top, and motioned for Crowley to get in. “No time to explain,” he said hurriedly. “Just - off you go in here, and cover your ears -” 

Crowley had questions, but Aziraphale’s voice had enough divine providence in it that Ixtaca the scholar wouldn’t have been able to resist the command. So Crowley climbed clumsily into the crate. 

No sooner had Aziraphale replaced the lid on top of the crate did a voice begin to emanate from the burning herbs. Crowley peered out from a crack between the wooden boards of the crate.

“Aziraphale!” boomed the voice. Though it was distorted by the crackling of the flames, Crowley recognized the voice as that of the man-shaped archangel who Aziraphale had brought on a grand tour of Tenochtitlan a week prior. 

“Hello, Gabriel,” said Aziraphale. “I wasn’t expecting you to -” 

“Turn up in your flower basket?” said the flaming herbs impatiently. “Well, you didn’t give me much of a choice in comm lines. I don’t like this anymore than you do. Keep a bush or a donkey nearby next time, won’t you?” The fireball seemed to twist around, taking in its surroundings. “Good lord, is this where you  _ live? _ ”

“It’s cozy,” said Aziraphale defensively. 

The fireball snorted derisively. A spark flew out, landed on Crowley’s crate, and extinguished itself. “At least you’re alone. Saves us the trouble of being discreet.” 

“Well, I -” 

“Listen, Aziraphale, we need you back in Europe. Post-haste.” 

“But you approved this holiday -” 

“And now I’m unapproving it,” said Gabriel. “The pope situation is getting out of hand. Neither Sandalphon nor Michael can make heads or tails of the mess. You’re needed back east.” 

“I’m needed here,” said Aziraphale. “Daeva’s still in power -”

The fireball rolled derisively. “Tenochtitlan is a write-off. You know we’ll send in the conquistadors in a few hundred years.” 

“But -” 

“Don’t say you like  _ this _ hovel better than your villa in Italy,” said Gabriel. Rage surged through Crowley. Insulting Aziraphale’s choice of lodgings was  _ his _ job. But he resisted the urge to burst out of the wooden crate and punch the ball of divine flame in its amorphous face. “Or the human sacrifice, or the humidity,” continued the archangel. 

“I don’t,” said Aziraphale in a small voice. 

“Then  _ why _ are you still here?” The fire flared up, until it was nearly touching the ceiling.

“There are things I still have to do,” said Aziraphale. “Just give me a month to deal with Daeva - after that, I promise I’ll go sort out the popes.” 

“Three days to pack up.” 

“Two weeks to tie up loose ends?” 

“This is not a negotiation,” thundered Gabriel. “One week. Then you’re back to France. _Comprende?_ ” 

“One week,” agreed Aziraphale. 

Gabriel’s flames abated slightly. “You’ve got gumption, Aziraphale. I’ll give you that. But one day, it’s going to get you into trouble.” 

Then the fireball poofed out of experience, leaving a pungent herbal smell behind. 

Crowley coughed. 

Aziraphale whirled towards the crate, as if he’d forgotten he’d left a scholar in there. “Oh - oh dear -” 

For the second time in as many minutes, he brushed the books off the top of the wooden box. Then, he pulled the lid off the top, and extended a hand to Crowley. 

Crowley waved Aziraphale’s hand away, and pulled himself out of the box. His joints creaked as he stood up from his cramped position. “One week?” he said, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be a human scholar.

“Did you hear something? You really shouldn’t have.” Aziraphale’s eyes darted from side to side. “Must have been a spark that landed on the Emperor’s candlestick,” he said. “I’ve heard its fumes have hallucinogenic properties -” The angel rushed to inspect the basket of herbs, but Gabriel’s appearance had burned them all clean away. “- oh, dear, I was going to turn those into a poultice.” 

“Really?” said Crowley. He’d been convinced that Aziraphale had only sent him out to gather herbs to get him out of his hair. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale mournfully. He twisted the hem of his cream-coloured poncho. “There’s just so many things I need to do. I haven’t got any time to pick more - not that I’d even know where to go, they’re very rare -” 

Crowley had sworn he’d never go back to the cultists’ lair. But this was a way to prove Ixtaca’s worth and bring the scholar into Aziraphale’s good graces. “What if I told you,” he said slowly, “that I knew a spot in the mountains where you could pick some more?” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot upwards. “I thought you were a historian, not a herbalist,” he said. 

“Why not both?” suggested Crowley. “I’m a man of many talents.” 

“Emperor’s candlestick is rather rare around these parts.” 

“Is it really?” said Crowley rhetorically. “Come on, we’d better get going if we want to be back before sundown...” 

##  ∽⧗∼ 

The trip to the cultists’ compound was a hundred times more pleasant than the last. This time, it was Aziraphale toting the reed flower-basket around. And Crowley had been able to snag a reed hat from a market stall, while Aziraphale haggled over waterskins and strips of dried squash at the next vendor over. The hat’s wide brim provided welcome shade as they trekked across the plateau. Unfortunately, the demon’s hat did not fit tightly enough over his ears to block out the angel’s incessant one-sided dialogue about the highlights of European history. 

“Now, Athens recovered from the plague and the Peloponesian war - and Rome was sacked  _ three times _ \- but look at them now! Still standing strong behind two thousand years of history. There’s no reason that Venice and Paris and Florence couldn’t do the same -” 

Because Venice and Paris and Florence hadn’t been hit by a triple whammy of Famine, War, and Pestilence within the span of forty years, thought Crowley sourly, a few steps behind the angel on the narrow dirt path. But he couldn’t  _ say _ that without betraying Ixtaca’s supposed ignorance. 

“- humanity’s always been very resilient, you see -” 

He couldn’t take it anymore. There had to be a way to change the topic. Crowley tried to imagine what Ixtaca would do under the circumstances. Ixtaca was supposed to be a scholar, somewhat besotted with the angel. And it was not difficult to understand how someone might be besotted with the angel. There was an unquenchable spark of life in Aziraphale’s eyes and a warmth to his speech that invited a listener to share his enthusiasm and get swept away in a grand narrative of winemaking or the silk trade or even the worst century that Crowley had known - 

“- and did you know, there are artists painting the most  _ enchanting  _ frescoes in Milan as we speak -” 

“Have you ever been in love?” The question slipped out from Crowley’s lips with frightening ease. No - not Crowley’s lips. Ixtaca’s. It was what an infatuated scholar would ask the angel. However, Crowley could not halt the slowly settling sense of mortification descending upon him. 

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks and turned slowly around. “Pardon me?” 

“Have you ever been in love,” repeated Crowley, before his better instincts could catch up and march him straight back to Tenochtitlan. 

“Oh, my,” said Aziraphale. 

Though it was Ixtaca who had asked the question, Crowley was not ready, under any circumstances, to hear the answer. He did not know what would be worse - if the angel answered in the negative or the affirmative. It was not too late to redirect the line of questioning. “I meant, have you had, er, any good rolls in the hay lately? I’ve seen you at the temple of Xochiquetzal -” His voice broke off as his nerve finally failed him. 

But before Crowley had a chance to reword the query a second time, the angel got a faraway look in his eye. “A few times. A long time ago. Ages, really. Not sure it counted, though, because technically -” 

“What were they like?” said Crowley. Blast it. He hadn’t meant to ask that. It was Ixtaca talking. Crowley was just along for the ride. That was method acting. You never knew what the role would demand.

“Tenacious. Open-minded. Generous, though they’d never admit it. Not much of a poet,” said the angel, still staring into the distance. “Erm. Good cheekbones?” 

“Right,” said Crowley, reminding himself to reinstill those qualities in Ixtaca at the next available opportunity. “And what happened afterwards?” 

“Nothing, in the end. It wasn’t the right time,” said Aziraphale. “I’m afraid, really, that there may never be an opportune time for any of it. It was really too risky. I remembered my place. I remembered I was being foolish. I remembered that I was, er, and, er -” The angel fumbled the end of his sentence, before letting it disintegrate into silence. 

“Oh,” said Crowley. 

“Indeed,” said Aziraphale. He cleared his throat. “Now, as I was saying, the Italian sculptors are doing some absolutely  _ marvellous _ things with marble nowadays -” 

Crowley was barely listening to the angel’s recount of the state of Italian art. How could he - how could  _ Ixtaca  _ compare to some long-dead human lover? 

But then he recalled that Aziraphale had claimed that the other man had not been much of a poet. But Aziraphale’s personal library was home to all sorts of poetry: from hefty translations of  _ Beowulf _ , to anthological scrolls of Japanese  _ waka _ , and even to slim volumes of Italian  _ cansos _ extolling the virtues of courtly love. Perhaps that was where he - where  _ Ixtaca  _ could gain an edge in inspiring Lust. 

The demon cast his gaze around for artistic inspiration. There was nothing except shrubby bushland as far as the eye could see. Lonely trees dotted the plains. There were shadowy grey mountains peeking over the horizon ahead of them. But the view was dominated by a blue sky, spotted with fluffy white clouds that offered little in terms of shade. 

Blue. Aziraphale had blue eyes. Crowley could work with that. He couldn’t bust out an entire sonnet like Guido Cavalcanti, but a few rhyming couplets would be a piece of cake. The demon spent the next few minutes turning over words in his mind, polishing the rhyme and the meter. 

“- and the Byzantine scholarly diaspora are bringing such  _ modern  _ perspectives on Greek classics to the west -” 

“It’s a nice day out, isn’t it?” said Crowley casually, breaking the angel’s narrative. 

“Hmm? I suppose it is -” said Aziraphale. 

But Crowley had already forged onwards, before he could have any second thoughts. “It’s seldom that I’ve seen a sky so fair,” he said. “For such a blue is quite beyond compare.” 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. So Crowley kept going. “I’ve only seen that shade one time before. And it was in that gaze of yours.” 

He finished the poem decisively, and waited. 

Aziraphale’s jaw had fallen open in slack surprise. Surely that was a good sign -

Then the angel doubled over in laughter, right there in the middle of the plateau. “Ixtaca - what was that -” he choked out. 

“It was poetry. I thought you liked poetry,” said Crowley helplessly. 

“I do. Just -” Aziraphale’s words were interrupted by another bout of giggling. The sound of laughter rang across the plateau, joined by the cawing of crows in a nearby tree. “Oh, dear - did Crowley tell you to use those lines?” 

“No,” muttered the demon. 

Aziraphale must not have heard, because he was still chortling. The reed basket at the angel’s elbow had fallen to the grasses at his feet. 

Crowley felt his cheeks redden. “Sorry,” he said. Next time he’d compose a haiku. If there even  _ was _ a next time. 

“No, no,” said Aziraphale, still fighting laughter. “It wasn’t - I didn’t think he’d actually write another -” An eternity later, the angel managed to straighten up and compose himself somewhat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You were merely the messenger.” 

“Yeah, just the messenger,” said Crowley. He stared murderously at the ground, and kicked a clod of dirt into a sage bush. 

“Please, tell your employer I appreciated his effort,” said Aziraphale. He swiped at the tears on his cheek with the back of his hand, and then bent down to pick up the basket he’d dropped. “It’s good to know that Crowley’s sense of humour is still intact, despite everything.” 

“It was a rubbish poem anyways,” said Crowley bleakly. 

“It wasn’t bad. Merely unexpected. I didn’t expect him to write a poem for me, particularly under these circumstances.” said Aziraphale. He was still smiling faintly, an expression that heartened the demon somewhat. “Come on, it’s a long way to the mountains.” 

_ A long, long way.  _ Maybe long enough to compose a better poem. Crowley adjusted the hat on his head, and hurried after the angel. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've joined too many D&D groups, so the next update will be delayed to the week of July 12th.


	10. Peer Review

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley criticizes Aziraphale's research.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to our regular update schedule.

Aziraphale had been doing some surreptitious magic to lengthen their footsteps and shorten the journey time, which Crowley appreciated. Waterskins, snacks, and his stolen hat only did so much to stave off travel-weariness. They arrived at the cultists’ compound in the early afternoon. 

“Is that it?” said the angel suspiciously. 

The silhouette of the decrepit summer palace perched precariously at the edge of the waterfall was unmistakable. “Maybe,” said the demon. He squinted into the distance, wondering if Daeva was roosting in the monkeypod tree, but saw only a flock of crows perched in the boughs. 

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale. 

They walked through the crenellated wall around the estate. The cultist he’d met earlier was standing guard at the gate, but was much cleaner than before. “Welcome to Quetzalcoatl’s Garden Emporium,” he recited. “Please enjoy your visit.” 

Crowley tensed as he and Aziraphale entered the garden, expecting a trap. But no grubby cultists sprang out of the bushes to rob them, and Daeva did not swoop down from the skies to gloat about her imminent victory. The garden was slightly more overgrown than before. More importantly, all of the knockoff doomsday calendars had been removed from the courtyard. There was no point in carving any more of them, Crowley thought sourly, after Daeva had already succeeded in tempting Aziraphale to envy, greed and pride in one go. 

Daeva was no gardener, though. Crowley looked around the garden. It was very utilitarian. No sense of proportion or layering - merely herbs of medicinal value, planted in straggly rows. “There's the emperor's candlestick,” he said, pointing at the tall shrub in the far corner of the courtyard. 

Aziraphale’s expression brightened. “Excellent. I’ll just be a moment,” he said. 

“Take your time,” said Crowley, but the angel had already made a rapid beeline for the shrub, leaving the demon standing awkwardly at the gate with the cultist. “Well, this is different,” Crowley said, just to break the silence. 

“Quetzalcoatl’s Garden Emporium is the first and foremost supplier of fine herbs and vegetables in the mountains,” said the man. A wide, cheerful smile was affixed firmly to his face. 

“Well, I just thought you’d be stocking up on herbs for the end of the world, not selling them.”

The man seemed to struggle with himself before replying. “There’s no economic benefit to stockpiling goods,” he said. His smile remained undimmed, but his hold on his pointed digging-stick tightened. “Through specialization in the production of herbs, we can optimize our output on the Production-Possibilities Frontier, and thus maximize our purchasing power as - as -” 

“As the Brotherhood of Prophecy?” prompted Crowley. 

The man thumped his stick violently on the ground. “As Quetzalcoatl’s Garden Emporium! Incorporated!” 

“Um,” said Crowley. “So your union negotiations went well?” 

The man’s knuckles turned white from the tightness of his grip. “Oh, they went  _ so _ well. You know what we got out of the negotiations? Stock options! Stock options will do us all a lot of good at the end of the world. Now we’re part of the system, man. The globalized economic system!” 

“You could always find a home somewhere else,” offered Crowley.

“No,” said the man, with surprising viciousness. “One of these days, Daeva’ll see the end of the world coming for her. Then she’ll realize that we were right all along. That the aquaponic mushroom farms and deep aquifers aren’t a waste of space! We’ll see who’s laughing when the sky rains fire and the earth bleeds red.” Then he paused, as if he’d run out of wind. “Besides, this is my home.” He looked up at Crowley. “You got a home?” 

“Used to,” said the demon. 

“Then you get it,” the cultist said, suddenly serious. “Home’s not something you just leave behind so easily, even if -” The cultist broke off the end of his sentence, choking down emotion. Then he stood up abruptly, and ran his hand over the rough stone wall of the compound. “You see this wall?” 

“Couldn’t miss it.” 

“I cleared the vines off it when we got here, so they wouldn’t pull down the stone.” He walked towards the centre of the garden, in the direction of the crumbling summer palace. “And that house? We stole that house back from the mountain.” He pointed at a line of scraggly herbs in the ground. “And I planted those mint bushes with my own two hands.” The cultist looked back up at Crowley. “Ain’t nobody taking away my mint bushes. Especially not Daeva.” 

Perhaps it was the heat of the afternoon sun, or perhaps Crowley’s hat was too tight, but he nearly understood what the cultist was saying. 

Until a fervent light reappeared in the man’s eyes, and he opened his mouth again. “We’ll see how much she likes her stock options when the serpent Quetzalcoatl returns, and ushers in a new age of glory!” 

Crowley wasn’t sure what to say to that, so it was a relief when Aziraphale called him from across the garden. “I think I’ve got enough now - is this where I check out?” 

“Ten cacao seeds,” said the cultist. The light of conviction had once again been replaced by the pleasant veneer of customer service. 

“Nice talking to you,” said Crowley to the cultist. 

Aziraphale rummaged somewhere in the folds of his poncho for the requisite payment and passed it over. The man took the cacao seeds and dropped them into a jar at the entrance. “Thank you for visiting Quetzalcoatl’s Garden Emporium. We hope you had a pleasant experience,” he recited. 

Crowley and Aziraphale set off, back along the overgrown path back to Tenochtitlan.

“Who was that?” asked the angel curiously, once they were out of earshot of the compound. The basket at his elbow was now brimming with cheery yellow blossom stalks. 

“Doomsday nutter,” said Crowley. “Thinks the world’s going to end soon. Not permanently, or anything, but that the next age will be better.” 

“Well, he’s a few centuries off, but he’s not completely wrong,” said Aziraphale. “Pestilence, War, and Famine all eventually pass. And when they do, they often leave it better off.”

Crowley had been cultivating a circumspect academic impassivity about the Horsemen, but there was something in the nonchalance of the angel’s tone that grated on his ears. “Better off? What’s that supposed to mean? Didn’t half your people just die?” The words flew out of Crowley’s mouth before he could stop them. 

“Well,” said Aziraphale carefully, “there have been reports that the reduced population has led to a shortage of farmers and craftsmen. The shortage is leading to higher wages for the working class, which leads to a greater demand for the fine things in life. Not to mention that there’s now more land to go around, since many of the landowners have died -”

“How can you  _ ssssay _ that?” hissed Crowley. 

“It’s the truth, Ixtaca,” said Aziraphale, now looking uncomfortable. He fiddled with the yellow flowers sticking out of the reed basket. “It’s happened before. After Athens fell from Pestilence and War, the Delian League lost the Peloponesian war swiftly, rather than dragging it on for another decade. And because so many of the rich died, wealth was inherited by their poorer relatives, increasing economic equality.” 

The demon struggled to find a word to describe the angel’s sudden onset of ruthless utilitarianism. “That’s - that’s -” 

“And after that, Pestilence, War _ and  _ Famine brought about the Imperial Roman Crisis of the Third Century,” continued Aziraphale. “Which in turn led to a decentralization of the Roman economy. It left common people free to work and live outside the long shadow of the Emperor, and for the outer provinces to break away and choose their own leaders.” 

Crowley finally unearthed an appropriate adjective. “That’s heartless,” he accused. 

Aziraphale looked wounded. “No, that’s history. I’ve been telling you about it for the last three days.” 

“That entire history lesson was to justify  _ genocide _ ?” 

“I was just trying to look at the bright side of things,” said Aziraphale. “It’s not easy, you know. But when you’ve lived as long as I have, it’s the only way you can look at it.” 

“No. It’s psychotic, is what it is.” 

Aziraphale shifted his flower basket to his other arm, and swiped at the sweat on his brow with his wrist. “It might seem that way, but would you please tell Crowley what I said anyway? Things aren’t as bad as they seem at home. And I just - I just want him to know that.” 

“I don’t think so,” snarled Crowley. He stormed ahead on the path, refusing to look back at the angel.

##  ∽⧖∼

The walk back to Tenochtitlan was long and tiresome without Aziraphale’s prattle to break up the chirping of the grasshoppers and the whistle of the songbirds. The angel was still following him, based on the sound of his footsteps in the grass. But the near-silence left Crowley a lot of time to steam over Aziraphale’s assertions that the Horsemen had been at all beneficial for European culture. 

He could not maintain his rage over the several miles back to Tenochtitlan, though, and it slowly abated from anger to frustration, and then from frustration to awkwardness. 

It wasn’t that the angel had taken fate into his own hands and lit the third beacon. Crowley accepted the inevitability that Pestilence would have made his way over to the continent eventually, if Daeva had her way. 

It wasn’t even that Aziraphale had let Crowley  _ think _ that the demon had lit the beacon himself. It wasn’t something that naturally came up in conversation when one was chugging a mug of pulque on a lakeside hammock.  _ Isn’t the weather nice? Oh yes, by the way, I’m partially responsible for the deaths of ten million humans.  _

It was that Aziraphale could somehow be so blasé about the whole affair. How could he speak about War and Famine and Pestilence with such objectivity? How could he claim that any of it had a silver lining? 

And why did those claims coincide with the angel’s inconveniently burgeoning interest with human herblore? 

“What’s with the Emperor’s candlestick?” Crowley asked abruptly, spinning around on the narrow dirt path. 

The angel stumbled, but recovered. “Pardon me?” said Aziraphale. 

“The yellow stuff. Why do you need it?” 

“Well, I have a notion it could be used in certain medicines - in fever-relievers, perhaps. Or as a fungicide.” 

“But  _ why?  _ Why is it so important that you’d walk all the way out here to get some more?”

“Your employer will know why, Ixtaca,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley planted himself in the middle of the path, with his arms crossed. He had a notion that it had to do with the angel’s propensity for unsolicited do-goodery, but he wanted to hear it in Aziraphale’s own words. “Tell me anyways,” he said. 

Aziraphale fiddled with his basket. “You remember the plague that I told you about? The Black Death?” 

“I couldn’t forget,” said Crowley sarcastically. 

“It causes fever. Headaches. Vomiting. Pustules. None of the herbs or medicines back home were any use in treating it. I hoped that - well - maybe some of the ones here might be good enough.” Aziraphale stopped adjusting the cotton cover on top of the basket, and looked at the ground. “I hoped that I’d be able to take some of the seeds and samples home, and hope that some of them might be used for a cure.” 

“That’s not much of a hope,” Crowley pointed out. “The herbs’ll lose potency when you dry them. And the seeds might not even germinate in soil on another continent.” 

“I don’t claim to be an expert on herblore. But it’s the best idea I have.” 

“If it was so easy, someone would have done it already.” 

Aziraphale lifted his chin up mulishly. “I understand. Regardless, I have to try.” 

And Crowley did understand, just a bit. It was a notion he’d briefly entertained, a few years ago. Right as he’d seen Famine, War, and Pestilence sweep over the continent, one after another, it was as if part of him had turned to stone. A strange stillness had settled over him, replaced only by a drive to put out the fires that Daeva had left behind. He did not eat or sleep. By day, he pushed himself through whatever pointless assignment Beelzebub threw his way. And by night, he surveyed the damage the Horsemen had wrought, and tried to claw a crumb of civilization back from the wreckage. 

But the stillness did not last. It lifted eventually, replaced by crushing despair. All around him were things he could not fix. There were communities too fractured by loss to ever be rebuilt, and monasteries that would never be repaired. 

And it never ended. Every time he passed by a fallow field, half-reclaimed by forest, or a cathedral reduced to rubble, he couldn’t help but remember how everything had looked only a few decades prior. No village was left untouched by Pestilence or War or Famine. It was exhausting. 

The last straw was when Pope Clement was elected in Avignon, in opposition to Pope Urban in Rome. Perhaps in the thirteenth century, Crowley would have relished the opportunity to pit the popes against each other. Perhaps he would have written longer and longer liturgies for each of them to recite, as if the length of the prayer reflected the legitimacy of their positions. Perhaps he would have invented terrible new headdresses for each pope, so that each could wear the sovereignty of their office in the most ostentatious fashions possible. But not in the fourteenth century. There was no joy in heaping yet another indignity upon the continent. 

Crowley fled Rome. Europe had proven itself beyond his means to fix. But he could request a reassignment to Mexico, and build himself a new home there. 

The fact that Aziraphale had not lost hope for Europe was mind-boggling. More confusing was the angel’s turnaround from having been completely unapologetic about his role in lighting the third beacon and summoning Pestilence to Italy, to his fruitless attempts to cure the Black Death. But better a late-onset conscience than none at all. “Yeah. I guess you do have to try,” Crowley said, not bothering to keep the venom out of his voice. 

Aziraphale nodded decisively. “Now, if we’re quite finished, I’d like to hurry back and preserve these plants while they’re still fresh.” 

Crowley turned sharply back around on the path, following it back towards the city. 

##  ∽⧗∼ 

The rest of the journey was made in silence, until they arrived at Aziraphale’s hut. “Here we are,” said the angel. “Thank you kindly, Ixtaca, for helping me with the herbs... would you like to come in for a nightcap before turning in?” 

“I’d rather not,” said Crowley. 

“I understand,” said Aziraphale. “My field of research hasn’t been the most tasteful of subjects.” 

“You don’t say,” muttered Crowley. 

“I’d only hoped that, perhaps, you would relate some of it back to your employer,” said Aziraphale. He half-turned back at Crowley, with a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “After all, he sent you to spy on me, didn’t he?” 

“Uh.” 

“Come in anyway,” said Aziraphale. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure you’re thirsty.” He walked into his hut, leaving the door open behind him. 

Crowley’s resolve wavered. He could close the hut door and leave the angel to his own devices, but that might put a permanent rift between Aziraphale and Ixtaca the scholar if the day ended on such a bitter note. And Crowley had already put three days worth of effort into ingratiating Ixtaca to the angel. Aziraphale would be called back to Europe in a few days. Crowley’d be hard-pressed to find an opportunity to win his wager once the angel’s time was monopolized by what Gabriel had called the “pope situation.” 

So the demon sighed gustily, and walked into the angel’s hut. 

Aziraphale had already set a pot of water over the fire. As the water heated up, the angel portioned out smears of cacao seed paste and cornmeal into two cups. He glanced up from his preparations. “Thank you,” he said. “Please, sit down.” 

“Just one drink,” said Crowley warily, as he folded his legs underneath him on the reed mat. He took his hat off and put it on the table in front of him. The hut was dark but for the warm glow of the hearth, so the angel’s clutter was hidden in the shadows. 

“I apologize for today,” said Aziraphale. The water had begun to boil, so the angel carefully ladled it into both cups. “I didn’t mean to imply that Famine and War and Pestilence were  _ good _ . But even they pass. Things may never go back to normal, but that doesn’t mean things can’t get  _ better _ , afterwards.” He paused. “I was hoping that you’d pass that on to Crowley, so that he would understand that none of what happened was his fault. That there are greater forces at work, that neither of us can control. And that - that he shouldn’t feel like he can’t go home.” 

Aziraphale had such a terribly earnest look on his face that Crowley couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the angel. “I’ll pass it on,” said the demon grudgingly. “But you can’t make anyone feel a certain way. If any of us could control our feelings like that, we would.” 

“I suppose so,” sighed Aziraphale. He set both cups onto the table, and took a seat. “Any honey? Agave nectar? Vanilla?” 

“Chiles, if you have them.” 

Aziraphale made a face, as he stirred agave nectar into his own cup. “I’ve never understood the point of spicing up a good cup of cacao.” He passed a small jar of dried chilis and a small spoon to Crowley. 

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re not from around here.” The demon scooped up a spoonful of chiles and stirred them into his xocoatl. 

“Well, neither are you,” pointed out Aziraphale. 

“How could you tell?” said Crowley, startled. 

The angel smiled. “You’ve got a traveller’s look to you, that’s all.”

“You mean I look like a tourist. Was it the hat?” Crowley glared at his wide-brimmed reed hat. “I knew it was the hat.” 

“I can’t put my finger on it, but it wasn’t the hat,” said Aziraphale. “Can’t blame you, anyway. Tenochtitlan is quite the city.” The angel took a drink from his mug, and his gaze turned pensive. “I remember the first time I visited Mexico. Must’ve been three thou - ages ago, but I can still taste my first sip of xocoatl in Tamoachan, and the corn fritters in the next village over.” 

And so could Crowley - he’d been the one to suggest that Aziraphale try hot cacao and fried maize during their very first holiday in Mexico. 

“Things were different, then,” continued the angel. “The pyramids were shorter. The cities were smaller. And I distinctly recall that there were massive stone heads everywhere. Not to say that, ah, Tenochtitlan sculpture is any less impressive... it’s simply a very  _ modern  _ style.” 

“Abstract art isn't my thing either,” said Crowley. 

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale. “And at the end of the day, there’s no place like home.” He rubbed the edge of his mug thoughtfully with his thumb. “I’ve told you about my home. Likely in too much detail. But you’ve told me nothing about yours.” 

“Mine?” 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “Where do you hail from, Ixtaca?” 

Crowley searched his mind. He hadn’t gone so far ahead as to give Ixtaca a proper backstory. “You’ve probably never heard of it,” he said.

“Tell me anyway,” said the angel. 

The demon turned his gaze to the glow of Aziraphale’s hearth. The silence stretched out between them as Crowley tried to formulate a suitably obfuscative answer. “Where I’m from - there were so many cities, much like Tenochtitlan, but all different. There were cities ruled by kings. Cities ruled by priests. Cities ruled by nobody at all. There were cities by the sea, with a harbour that could hold a hundred boats. There were cities surrounded by rings and rings of stone, and cities with spires of glass, and cities with domes gilded gold.” 

“That sounds lovely,” said Aziraphale. 

“You could never be sure what you’d find once you turn a corner on the street. Sometimes you’d find artists sketching the passerby with charcoal nubs. Or a mad priest standing on the edge of a fountain, preaching the end of the world. Or best of all, you might find a little food stand that sells spun-sugar sweets in the summer and hand-pies in the winter.” Crowley stared into his mug. “Until - well - everything went south. Not much left but rubble nowadays.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Aziraphale. “No wonder it was hard for you to listen to my - nevermind.” 

“Yeah, well, what’s done is done,” said Crowley. “I’m not going back anytime soon. And there’s no point crying over spilled milk.” Then he silently cursed his wording, because they didn’t have any cows, goats, or otherwise milkable livestock in Mexico.

Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice the demon’s slip. “I can’t say I understand exactly what you feel, or that I know what to say to make it right,” he said slowly. “All I  _ can _ say is that you’re allowed to feel whatever you feel, for however long you need to feel it.” The angel lay his free hand over the demon’s in what was intended to be a warm, comforting gesture. 

But it wasn’t comforting. The moment Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand upon his own, his heart began to race, and his breath hitched. He recognized this opportunity, as he had dozens of times before. This was his  _ chance _ to win a temptation of lust. He forced himself to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, clear and blue and compassionate. “And what if I feel something else?” he said, his voice deliberately pitched low. 

“Something else?” said the angel, leaning forward to catch his words. 

“Yes,” said Crowley. “What would you say to that?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes darkened, and he leaned in closer, until Crowley could feel the angel’s warm breath upon his cheek. The hairs stood up on the back of the demon’s neck. “Then I’d say,” said Aziraphale, in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes?” said Crowley, barely daring to breathe. 

“I’d say, tell Crowley that he’ll have to try harder than that,” said Aziraphale. And then the angel pulled away, retreating across the vast expanse of the knee-high table. 

“What?” spluttered the demon. Disappointment surged wildly through him. 

Aziraphale’s eyes danced with merriment. “He’ll know what I mean,” said the angel. 

“No, he won’t!” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale must’ve noticed the demon’s wounded tone, because his eyes softened, and he patted Crowley on the shoulder. “There, there, Ixtaca. You’re a fine man, and a fine friend. You’re just, er, not my type.”

Crowley groaned. 

“It’s late. Ought to turn in,” said the angel. “But I haven’t much time left in Tenochtitlan. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to join me for lunch tomorrow? I have a few more ideas that I’d like to toss around. Nothing pertaining to history, I promise.” 

Crowley wanted nothing more than to fling himself into the cool waters of Lake Texcoco and flop around until he’d forgotten all the ignominious events of the day. But there, Aziraphale was presenting him with one last opportunity to win his wager with Daeva. 

It was an opportunity the demon couldn’t refuse. Nor would he waste it on half-baked half-measures. It was time to bring out the big cannons. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Crowley. 


	11. The Reverse Sidonese Prisoner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes a hail-Satan play.

It was around midnight when Crowley made it back to his house. He missed several crucial turns on the way back as he obsessively recounted the events of the past day’s journey in his mind. 

Neither poetry or alcohol had sufficed to help the demon to inspire lust with Aziraphale, and time was rapidly running out. It’d be only a few days before the angel returned to Europe. And if Aziraphale returned to Europe, he was going to be neck-high in celestial assignments. There would be precious few opportunities for Crowley to get _any_ time alone with the angel, nevermind scoring the last two requisite temptations.

Yet he’d been doing spectacularly poorly in the latter half of the wager. Crowley’s four-step plan was shot to bits, with little chance of recovery. He leafed through his mental playbook for a hail-Satan maneuver. The Nubian Prince, the white-caravan lutes, three-card monte - none of those gambits were suitable. And he’d already tried the Sidonese Prisoner, which had been a complete bust. 

Actually, Crowley reflected, the Sidonese Prisoner hadn’t been a _complete_ bust. His henchmen had actually succeeded in convincing the angel to part with two thousand cacao seeds. Unfortunately, they’d succeeded a few hours too late. But a success was a success, and Crowley was woefully short on those lately. 

An idea came to the demon, and he snapped his fingers. The sound echoed down the empty street. He could employ a _reverse_ Sidonese Prisoner. Crowley couldn’t fathom why he’d never thought of it before. It was a brilliant idea that might let him knock Wrath and Lust out, one after the other, in a single stroke. He could yet have Daeva banished from Earth. 

The demon rapidly spun the loose ideas in his mind into a single, solid thread. He already had potential henchmen. He already had the Ixtaca disguise. And most of all, he had hope. 

Crowley was, once again, one scheme away from triumphing over Daeva. He was so close. He could nearly taste victory. And it tasted like lavender and honey and beeswax and - 

\- no, that was Aziraphale’s aura. Crowley’d been spending too long in close proximity with the angel in the Mexican heat. Traces of his aura still clung to his clothes. But this victory would not be sweet like flowers and nectar. This victory would have the bitter tang of blood in his mouth and the acrid burn of ashes on his tongue. But he’d savour it all the same. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

There were still several ducks to be put in a row before achieving victory, but none of them could be tackled in the middle of the night. For lack of better options, Crowley elected to try and get a good night’s sleep. It had been about a week since his last rest, and he wanted to be well refreshed for the big day ahead. There was enough to worry about without adding dark undereye circles to the mix. But sleeping came with its own risks. The demon steeled himself for dreams of the inexplicable and unpleasant variety. 

But instead, his subconscious took him to the duchy of Aquitaine. That was unexpected, as Crowley had not been to the southwest of France since the Edwardian war had broken out. The demon looked down, and saw that he was dressed in a Benedictine monk’s habit, black and hooded. His arms cradled a jug of claret. The smell of grapes hung above the vague, impressionistic summer landscape, and before him stood Aziraphale. 

The angel looked resplendent in a suit of chain armour, covered with a cream and grey overtunic. In one hand was a sword, and in the other, a pointed shield emblazoned with a gold fleur-de-lys. The impression of paragonic chivalry was ruined only by the slight sheen of sweat upon Aziraphale’s skin, and a redness in his face that might’ve been the side effects of exertion from tramping around the countryside in a metal suit, or simply the beginnings of a mild sunburn.

“Thought you’d have learned your lesson about dressing for the weather,” Crowley said casually. He shifted the weight of the jug in his arms. 

“I’m on the job. Ought to dress professionally,” said Aziraphale. He lowered his weapons, so that they were pointed at the ground instead of at the demon’s corporation. “And I should have known _you’d_ be here. What are you doing?” 

“Enjoying my holiday. And there I thought this was a social call,” said Crowley. 

“Oh, I wish,” said Aziraphale. “But Upstairs’ been receiving reports of some particularly widespread Sloth and Gluttony in this region. Don’t suppose you know anything about that?” 

“Not in the least,” said Crowley. “But the wine these last few years has been of a _particularly_ fine vintage.” 

The angel tutted. “I can see a temptation from a mile away, Crowley. You’ll have to try harder than that.” 

“Is that how you want to play it?” said the demon pleasantly. “Well, alright.” The sleeves of his habit lent themselves well to dramatic, sweeping gestures, like the one Crowley used to invite Aziraphale into the monastery. 

A raven’s caw brought Crowley out of the dream. The demon shut his eyes a bit tighter, pulled the sheet over his head, and willed himself to return to the hills of Aquitaine. 

Now the angel was sitting opposite of him at a rough-hewn wooden table, on the shady side of the stone monastery. He’d divested himself of his chainmail, and was down to his padded doublet and leggings. Two clay mugs sat on the table, half-filled with claret. “I’m telling you, Crowley,” he said, “you’re enjoying yourself far too much.” 

“And you’re not?” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale picked up his cup and sloshed the wine around, before taking another long sip. “Not as much as you seem to be,” he said. “I’m here to warn you that -” 

“Hang on, I thought you were here to investigate _sin_ and _evil_ and such,” said Crowley. 

“I’ve already done that,” said Aziraphale. “Nothing to report here. Just a particularly good year for wine.” 

“Oh, come on, now,” said Crowley. “It’s more than _particularly good_.” 

“Alright, it’s excellent,” said Aziraphale. “Moving on -” 

“I want to hear more about my wine.” 

“It has pronounced notes of toasted spices, smoke, and perversely, red apple,” said Aziraphale irritably. “Strangely bold yet inordinately smooth. Would likely pair well with a roast and a swift kick to the backside.” 

“Thank you,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale didn’t even try to suppress the subsequent eye roll. “Really, my dear. I thought you’d be lying about in some hammock in Nice, not trampling grapes with a bunch of Benedictines.”

“Can’t help it,” said Crowley. “Sloth’s just not my thing. _Habeo superbiam, ergo sum._ But don’t get your tabard in a twist. This is just a holiday. I’ll be back to Rome in a few weeks.” 

“Really? I thought you’d stay longer.” The angel gazed wistfully out the window. “I certainly would.” 

“Too quiet here,” said Crowley. “Besides, there’s amazing stuff happening in the cities lately. I mean, _come on_ , the Venetians have got eyeglasses. I’m not the only one wearing _these_ anymore.” He pointed at his dark glasses. “Chivalry’s a real hoot nowadays, too, and can you _believe_ they’ve actually finished the Notre-Dame de Paris?”

“Oh, I’m not really into gothic architecture -” 

“Printing presses, then? You know the Italians have just made contact with the Mongols. They might even bring the printing press over.” Crowley balanced himself on his back two chair legs, and rested his feet on the windowsill.

“Are they really?” said Aziraphale, with interest. 

“I’ll make sure of it,” said Crowley. “Angel, there’s a city for everything around here. A city of crepes. A city of canals. A city of polders.” He kicked Aziraphale’s gilded shield, which was resting against a table leg. “Even a city of gold, if one were so inclined.” 

“Is that a metaphor?” 

“Not really,” said the demon. 

The angel sighed. “Was it too much to ask for a few years of peace and quiet?”

Crowley downed the rest of his wine and inverted his empty cup on the wooden table with a thud. “Yeah. I have _plans_ for this place. The fourteenth century’s going to be a good one, Aziraphale. I can feel it.”

## ∽⧗∼ 

Crowley woke up to the sound of warblers outside his window. He grudgingly opened his eyes, and was rewarded by a beam of sunlight in his face for the trouble. There was no returning to the fields of Aquitaine now, he reminded himself. No mooning over what might’ve been. Today, there was only the reverse Sidonese Prisoner. 

First, the demon scoured his entire house for cacao beans - any that might have fallen out of his pockets and tangled themselves between the sheets, or been kicked into the dusty corners of the house. He scraped up a scant handful from the floor of his house, and added it to his belt pouch, which was still distressingly light. But it’d have to do. 

Then, Crowley went outside to beat the dust out of his clothes as best as he could, wishing that he could just miracle everything clean. Luckily the pale cloak showed dust less starkly than his black one did. Was that why Aziraphale wore so much white and cream? The demon snorted in amusement as he pulled his own cloak around his shoulders. 

Next, he went outside to lean over the water basin and sculpt Ixtaca’s face. He took extra care this time, making the eyes a bit brighter and the cheekbones a touch sharper than he had before. 

At last, Crowley added the finishing touches to the scholar’s visage. He eyed his work critically in the water. It’d do - barely - but it’d do. He reached into the cistern and splashed water on his face to wake himself up, dashing his reflection into little shards. Finally, he perched the floppy reed hat jauntily on top of his head. It was almost a waste to hide those cheekbones, but Crowley was too far along in the plan to risk sunburn and heatstroke. The hat was now officially part of Crowley’s four-step plan. And as Aziraphale was wont to say, there was no going against the plan. 

The demon stopped by the angel’s house on the way to the market. There were children playing in the communal courtyard again. Multiple fires blazed merrily, cooking massive pots of maize porridge. Aziraphale’s door was shut, but a gentle light flickered from within it. And there was no sign of Daeva, which could only be a good omen. 

Pleased with his observations, Crowley proceeded very casually to the market. Aziraphale was due to meet him for lunch near the main square. The demon was far too early for lunch, but he had other things on his mind. Such as the acquisition of accomplices. 

He made a beeline straight to the rough dais where Tozi and her troupe of actors had been performing the previous day. Her plays had never been all that well attended, but that morning, the audience for their rehearsals consisted of a few hobos and a flock of crows in the boughs of a straggly tree in the corner of the square. 

“One, two, three, four,” shouted Tozi, punctuating her words with claps. “Come on, I want to see some hustle!” 

The five actors on stage pranced in time with the beating drums. Four of them were dressed as stars in white kilts and body paint, while the one in the centre was dressed as the moon, with a round mask tiled with white shell fragments on his face. Sweat beaded on all their faces as they struggled to spin and jump in unison while waving their ribboned batons. 

“More hustle,” yelled Tozi. “Step to it!” 

For a moment, the choreography seemed to click. Until the moon tripped over his ribbons and sent the two stars on his left sprawling. 

“Cut!” barked Tozi. The dance halted. “Tlaca, what in the Nine Hells was that?” 

“Uh,” said the moon. “Your choreography?” 

“Not on any Earth I live on,” said Tozi. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. 

“Sorry, Tozi,” said Tlaca. 

“I don’t want apologies. I want you to dance better,” said Tozi. She removed her fingers from the bridge of her nose. “Take five. Maybe you lot will be better after stuffing some porridge into your gobs.” 

The actors shuffled off in defeat, and Tozi sat down heavily on the stage. “Bunch of amateurs,” she muttered. Then, she spotted the demon skulking in the shadows of the stage. “Hey, you. Scram. No free shows.” 

“This is a public square,” countered Crowley. “I can loiter here all I want.” But remembering why he’d come in the first place, he added, “I have a job for you.” 

“I don’t know,” said Tozi. “Time’s tight, with the rehearsals. First performance of the new show’s tomorrow afternoon, and we’ve got some ways to go yet.” 

“I can make it worth your while,” said Crowley. “Do you still do experimental small-audience improv?” 

“Oh, did Crowley refer you?” said Tozi, her face brightening. “Who’re we playing this time? Itinerant peddlers? Princes on walkabout? Crusty jugglers?” 

“Cultists,” said Crowley. 

“Oooh,” said Tozi. She squinted up at the demon. “What did you say your name was, again?” 

“Ixtaca. I’m a scholar.”

“Meaning _secret?_ Not likely,” snorted Tozi. “But hey, if you want to play it that way... what’s the job?” She stood up and began to pace, her hands clasped behind her back. 

“I want you to stage a kidnapping,” said Crowley. “When I give the signal around lunchtime today, try and drag me off into the bushes. And most importantly, make sure that scholar, Aziraphale, sees. He’ll come over to see what the fuss is about. And when he does, put up a bit of a fight, and then scarper.” 

It was the perfect plan. Appeal to the angel’s protective instincts to incite Wrath as he came to the rescue of the wayward scholar. Perhaps a daring rescue would be sufficient to get the blood up enough for Aziraphale to punch a cultist in anger. And perhaps, after the rescue, the scholar would be able to steal a searing kiss, fulfilling the temptation of Lust, and thus the last of the terms of the wager. 

“Hmm,” said Tozi, interrupting Crowley’s reverie. “There’s easier ways of getting a man’s attention than that.” 

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” said Crowley irritably. 

Her eyes softened slightly. “I’m just trying to save you the heartbreak. Between you and me, the scholar has eyes for only one man. And I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s you, Ixtaca.” 

“You don’t know that,” said Crowley. 

“No, I do. Aziraphale and I had some drinks earlier this week,” said Tozi. “He didn’t say it in as many words, of course. But sometimes you can just _tell_ . We’d be talking about theatre, and then he’d go, _so-and-so absolutely loved that sort of thing, back home he’d go every month, he used to really enjoy the works of the playwright Aristo-whatever -”_ Tozi cut her spiel short with a hand-flap of disgust. “I was married once, you know. I even know what it’s like to be in love. But _he_ couldn’t go five minutes without mentioning -” 

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Crowley, interrupting Tozi’s account of Aziraphale and the unnamed object of his affections. He didn’t need to hear anymore about _that_. “I’m aware. But I need to do this anyway.”

“You shouldn’t have to put on a show to win anyone over. There’s other fish in the lake,” insisted Tozi. 

“I’ve already made up my mind,” said Crowley resolutely. “So are you going to help me or not?” 

Tozi looked like she might protest again, but then she shrugged instead. “Who am I to fight against the whims of the heart?” 

“It’s not about whims. I don’t have whims. The fate of Tenochtitlan hangs in the balance!” snapped Crowley 

“Love’ll do that to you,” said Tozi, with an infuriating pat on the demon’s back. “But you don’t get a sympathy discount. Our fee is now two hundred cacao seeds per private booking.” 

Crowley blanched. “That’s highway robbery,” he said. 

“No, it’s good economics,” said Tozi, and she puffed up a little bit in pride. “Expertise costs money. We’ve got a proven track record with this kind of performance. What are you going to do, work with an unknown troupe? That’s a recipe for trouble. Also, we’ve got to work in some stuntwork, so we need liability insurance for any injuries that might occur. Plus a surcharge for the last-minute booking...” She ticked each item off on her fingers. “Hence, two hundred cacao seeds.” 

The demon dusted off his cloak self-consciously. “Will you take payment in installments?” 

“I’ll take a fifty percent deposit,” said Tozi cheerfully. 

“A promissory note.” 

“Bah, so you can walk out of town after?” The actress waved away the possibility. “We offer flexible payment plans, with a thirty percent deposit.” 

“Five percent.” 

“Twenty-five.” 

“Ten percent, and I’ll personally guarantee that your musical is a raging success,” Crowley said. 

Tozi’s eyebrows shot up. “How’s that going to work?” she said suspiciously. 

“Good marketing,” said Crowley. And no small demonic intervention, he added silently. But he always delivered on his deals.

“We can advertise the show ourselves,” said Tozi. 

“Not as well as I can,” said Crowley. 

Tozi’s gaze flickered over the demon, sizing him up with new eyes. “Alright,” she said. She spat in her hand, and offered it to Crowley. “No cancellations, no refunds and no rescheduling. And if you renege on your part of the deal - if the square tomorrow afternoon isn’t packed to the gills - then I’ll personally hunt you down and drop you into Lake Texcoco with a rock tied to your legs.” She delivered the last sentence with a cordial smile. 

“You always drive deals this hard?” said Crowley. His arm stayed firmly at his side. 

“Entertainment’s a dog-eat-dog industry, Ixtaca. If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the fire,” said Tozi. Her hand was still extended, and her smile didn’t waver. “So. Deal?” 

Crowley had handled far, far worse than one jumped-up auteur. He suppressed a shudder, and shook the actress’s moist hand with reluctance. “Deal,” he said. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

Crowley had to turn his belt pouch inside-out and run his finger along all the seams to find all the cacao seeds that he needed to pay Tozi’s deposit. Even then, he was short until he caught a tiny glint of darkness on the ground beside the actors’ stage and plucked two very sad seeds out of the dirt. Tozi accepted the payment with a supremely unimpressed look on her face, but mercifully few words. 

There were still a few hours before lunchtime. Crowley occupied his time by idly perusing the stalls, while the market grew busier and busier around him. 

He paused by a hat vendor. Maybe he could pick out a more stylish hat to crown Ixtaca’s head. He still had time before Tozi’s troupe burst out of the bushes, pulled a bag over his head, and dragged him off to a shack just outside Tenochtitlan. 

Just as the demon was contemplating the difference between a pointed, wide-brimmed hat with a red cotton ribbon woven around the brim and a rounded hat trimmed with feathers, a group of darkly-cloaked figures stalked out from the shadows. They wore elaborate snake-face masks carved from wood and embedded with turquoise scales. Crowley noted that the production value of the actor’s costumes had greatly improved from the last performance he’d witnessed. 

“Hey, guys, right on time,” he said, greeting the actors. “Nice masks. Putting my deposit to good use already, hm? I think you might be a bit early, though - I don’t see Azir-” 

The largest actor grabbed Crowley’s arms and wrenched them behind his back. “Agh, watch the goods,” he yelped. “Remember who’s paying you -” 

And then another actor approached, with a rough bag intended for the demon’s head. “Alright, if you must,” said Crowley. “Could you take the hat off, first? I don’t want to crumple it -” 

The demon trailed off, as his protest died in his throat. It wasn’t from the indignity of having his hat crushed, or from the smell of stale corn emanating from the burlap bag. 

Right before the actor pulled the bag over his head, Crowley glimpsed Daeva behind the cultists, dressed in grey, with a feral gleam on her face. 

Then the bag covered his eyes, and Crowley was thrown into darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Act 2. Extra thanks to silchasruin for her last-minute story input!


	12. A Journey in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley asks himself questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this brings us to the start of Act 3. This story got a bit longer than what I'd thought it would be, but I'm 90% sure it will have 16 chapters and then one author's note about character development and historical cherrypicking. 
> 
> Also this story is NOT a commentary on COVID-19.

Daeva’s henchmen bundled Crowley in a scratchy rug and lashed him to a sledge, despite the demon thrashing violently about with all the strength he could muster. “Help,” he shouted, but it came out sounding more like _glargh_. 

Then the sledge began moving, and Crowley redoubled his escape attempts, but to no avail. The rug was incredibly tight. He could barely move his arms and legs. The bag on his head was thick enough to block the sight and noise of the market. The demon’s breath came in short pants. Everything smelled musty, like old corn husks, or Melkor’s study. 

Crowley tried to stay calm. He wasn’t out of tricks yet. The demon tried to relax his body, and began to transform into a snake. His arms and legs melted painlessly away, and his body lengthened, only for the rug to squeeze painfully tight against his midsection. The rug was too small to contain the mass of a five hundred pound snake. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t hear - 

With a gasping breath, Crowley slipped back into a man-shaped form. He couldn’t get out of the rug. He couldn’t get away from Daeva. How had she found him? Where was she taking him? And what was she going to do once they arrived? 

He could answer the first question. There had been an awful lot of crows around, from the time he held auditions in Tenochtitlan, to that ill-fated journey to harvest a second batch of Emperor’s candlestick. He hadn’t thought much about them at the time, but now he realized that it would’ve been a piece of cake for Daeva to hide herself amongst the other birds. 

He could even answer the second question. Daeva controlled the doomsday cult in the mountains. The sledge was, in all likelihood, bound for that crumbling palace by the waterfall. 

But as for the third question - Crowley _really_ did not want to find the answer. 

All shreds of calm evaporated. Crowley opened his mouth and screamed. He didn’t know if anyone could hear him. He didn’t know if Daeva might punish him. But he didn’t care. He screamed until his throat was raw, clawing fruitlessly at the inside of the rug. He screamed until he thought he might pass out. 

And then, when he couldn’t scream anymore, there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat, and the distant scraping of the bottom of the sledge against the ground. Daeva was going to lock him away in some mountain prison, or drop him into the bottom of a well, or hang him upside-down from a tree. She was going to leave him there until she’d won the wager. Then the ground would open up underneath Crowley, and whatever force enforced the terms and conditions of the wager was going to drag him back to Hell for all eternity. 

The one perversely bright spot in all of that was that Daeva couldn’t discorporate him personally. Discorporation was allowed in the wager only under the umbrella of self defence. And Daeva had nothing to defend herself against because Crowley was strapped to a sledge, being dragged off to Satan-knows-where by burly goons. He almost wished that Daeva would try something. Then Crowley would win the wager by default. 

The journey passed most uncomfortably. Crowley was thirsty, hot, and felt every bump on the road out of Tenochtitlan - and then some. There was nothing for the demon to do but dwell on his thoughts, and he closed his eyes wearily. 

The mere idea of dreaming about what Daeva would do to him once they arrived at the summer palace was pointless - Crowley’d find that out soon enough. 

_But what if_ , said a rebellious voice in his head, _what if you actually escaped from Daeva?_ Better yet, what if he actually won the wager? 

It was a hope that Crowley hardly dared to have, but the notion remained stubbornly embedded in his mind. 

If he won the wager, he could take the Underduke’s place in Mexico, and claim the region for his own. The weather here was warm and pleasant. The people worshipped snakes instead of driving them from the fields and forests. With enough effort, he could even ease them away from human sacrifice. Crowley wasn’t really _needed_ in Europe.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, would probably return home to fix the damage that the Horsemen had wrought. He wouldn’t give up his wine and his silks and velvets. And the angel had never taken to Mesoamerican glyphs the same way he’d taken to eastern logographies. Not to mention that the archangel Gabriel had alluded to papal trouble brewing on the other side of the Atlantic. Crowley wondered who Beelzebub would send to replace himself in Europe. Maybe Dagon, or Eris. Neither of them would give the angel any trouble. Crowley could pass them his notes for wreaking havoc on the continent. 

Those notes started with bringing back the Greek classics to the fusty old libraries, for one. Scholars had been studying Roman writings for ages, but had left works like _Oedipus Rex_ and _Lysistrata_ untouched for hundreds of years. A bit of incest and scandal would liven up the monasteries. After that, Crowley had planned to join some philosophy groups and employ the Socratic dialogue until all the other scholars expelled him from the forum. 

Then he’d move on to infiltrating Italian art schools. It’d been ages since he’d tried his hand at nude sculpture. Or, if painting was more to his taste, he could vandalize - no, _enhance_ \- otherwise unremarkable pieces. Maybe by adding the Ogopogo’s rearing head to tasteful seascapes, or little dancing demons with pitchforks in the shadows of pastorals. 

But what Crowley had really, _really_ been looking forward to was the printing press. The Chinese had already invented it, and Europe was undoubtedly soon to follow, if Aziraphale had anything to say about it. The angel had gone positively moon-eyed at the mere idea of what the printing press would do for his personal library. But Crowley had entertained bigger plans. He’d be able to propagate new avenues of research - heretical, hoaxical, herpetological, or otherwise - like never before. Perhaps he’d spread a few rumours about an alchemical process that could turn lead to gold, or place a few choice hints that Earth was not the centre of the universe. Or maybe, if he was feeling particularly ambitious, he’d put his thoughts about calculus down on paper. 

Aziraphale would certainly not approve of the demon’s plans. He rarely did. Crowley could already imagine the angel’s reaction to the terrible, terrible heterodoxies that he’d commit with the printing press: a look of cultivated appallment, only slightly marred by laughter bubbling up at the edges. 

But that was a moot point. The demon’s plans would never come to fruition if he remained in Mexico. In the end, nobody would blame Crowley for a change in scenery after two thousand years. Not even Aziraphale. _Especially_ not Aziraphale. The demon would have wept at the irony, if he wasn’t currently dehydrated, exhausted, and stuffed in a rug in the middle of the countryside. Aziraphale, of all people, would understand why Crowley would want to stay in Mexico instead of returning back to Europe after the Horsemen’s rampage. The angel had spent half his holiday neck-deep in local herblore in the search of a cure for the Black Death, and the other half retracing the Horsemen’s bloody footprints through history to weave some shred of a silver lining for the fourteenth century. But trying to find a bright side to disaster was an exercise in futility, as much as taking the square root of a negative number, or turning lead into gold, or even finding the City of Gold, or - 

\- or winning his wager with Daeva. Crowley choked down a helpless laugh. There was no likelihood of _that_. He was wrapped inside the rug as tightly as an Egyptian mummy, bound for the cultists’ mountainside hideout. 

But _why_ would Daeva have done that in the first place? 

Unlike the _how_ , the _where,_ and the _what_ of the situation, the _why_ was a question that Crowley had not asked yet. But the answer came readily to mind. Daeva hadn’t earned any temptations since the triple-whammy of Envy, Greed, and Pride. Maybe she was worried she’d actually lose the bet. Maybe Crowley had been closer to winning the wager than he’d realized. Maybe his victory was not so impossible after all. 

And if that was not impossible - well, then. 

What if Europe still had some bits worth saving? What if the angel’s quest to find a cure to the Black Death wasn’t a fool’s errand? What if Aziraphale had been right about the fourteenth century after all?

Aziraphale wasn’t always right. But he was usually on the mark about the things that mattered. 

The demon opened his eyes, though he could only see the darkness inside the musty rug. Sooner or later, someone was going to let him out. Then he was going to stuff _Daeva_ in the rug. He was going to win the bet, he was going to finish carrying out the Reverse Sidonese Prisoner scheme, and then - 

“I’m going back,” Crowley whispered to the darkness. “I’m going home.” 

## ∽⧗∼ 

Crowley was jolted out of his revenge fantasy by the feeling of falling several inches off a sledge. Unseen hands pulled him out of the rug and threw him to the ground. Crowley flailed fruitlessly in the dark before the burlap bag blinding the demon was ripped from his head. The demon struggled to his feet, blinking in the sudden brightness, and smashed his head onto something hard. Crowley groaned and clutched his head. Something heavy crashed to the ground behind him. 

He jerked towards the sound, and found himself looking at the stout wooden bars of a cage, lashed together with maguey fibres. The bars were spaced tightly, no more than a palm’s width apart, and the cage was too small to stand up or lie down in. Crowley gripped the bars and pulled, but they held firm. 

The cage sat on top of a sagging wooden dais, at the end of a large stone room. At the far end of the room was a tall, dark door. Daylight seeped in through small windows around the room. A vaguely familiar garden was visible through the closest window, with a monkeypod tree in the middle, and some straggly rows of herbs stretched outwards in the early afternoon sun. 

A group of hooded and masked figures huddled in the middle of the hall. He pressed his face to the bars of the cage. 

“Hey,” he called. 

The shortest of the figures approached the door, and doffed their hood, revealing Daeva’s face, framed by grey feathers. “Good. You’re awake,” she said. 

“You stole my plan,” said Crowley. He met her dead, grey gaze squarely. 

Daeva didn’t blink. “It wasn’t much of a plan to start with,” she said. “That scheme with the actors didn’t work the first time. Why would it work the second time?” 

“Oh, so you imprisoned me because you were afraid my plan would fail?” said Crowley. The retorts rose readily to his lips, and he distantly observed that he should be afraid. But instead of fear coursing through his veins, he felt nothing but reckless, giddy relief. “I’d forgotten how _kind_ you could be. Otherwise I’d think this was sabotage, because you know I’m going to win -” 

“Sabotage? Hardly. I saw you make a fool of yourself around that angel, when you were tempting him to lust,” she said. “Poetry - really?” 

The obvious barb skidded right off Crowley’s scales. “Know thy enemy,” he said smoothly. “I recall you didn’t try at all. Suppose your failure to inspire Wrath must’ve been a bit of a blow.” He grinned perversely. “I bet you were jealous, actually.” 

“You’re the one who ought to be jealous,” said Daeva. 

“I’m hardly jealous, since you haven’t won the wager either,” said Crowley. “But maybe Envy is your sin after all. It’d explain why you sent the Horsemen. You couldn’t stand to see other cities thrive after Taxila and Kesh fell. And then you couldn’t stand to see me in Tenochtitlan.” 

Daeva’s feathers bristled, and she grabbed the bars of the cage. “You’ve no right to talk about those cities,” she snarled. “Not when Paris and Rome went down on your watch. That’s why you’re here in Mexico, aren’t you? You’re afraid to face your mistakes.” 

“Paris and Rome will pick themselves back up in time,” said Crowley, and a sneer crept into his voice. “My only mistake was that I brought only one crossbow to Messina, instead of two.” He pressed his face to the opening in the cage, too, so that he was inches from the other demon. “Lord knows how you got promoted to Underduke, seeing as you’re moonlighting as Gabriel’s errand-girl. But me, I’m the Serpent of Eden. If I were a celestial boot-licker like you, I’d be jealous too.”

Daeva flexed her fingers, as if she wanted to reach right into the cage and throttle Crowley. She couldn’t, really. Neither of them had their powers, and Crowley figured that he’d probably win in a fair fight. 

But instead, she took a step backwards, away from the cage. “That doesn’t matter,” she said. “None of it matters.” 

“Seems to matter quite a bit to you right now,” Crowley said. 

“No,” said Daeva. She began to pace in front of the wooden cage. “This, Crowley, is my winning move. Can you figure out what happens next?” 

“Maybe you’ll let me out, and I’ll win our wager?” 

“I’ve been watching you,” she said. 

“Naturally. Because I’m very handsome,” said Crowley. 

“I’ve been watching you with that angel,” said Daeva, and the bravado in Crowley’s veins evaporated, to be replaced by rushing cold. “Though you’ve not managed to incite any sort of lust within the patsy, he’s become rather fond of you. Which suits my purposes just fine.” 

“How so?” said Crowley. His mouth was dry, but he kept his gaze fixed on Daeva.

“See, the angel will be compelled to go looking for you when he realizes the scholar ‘Ixtaca’ hasn’t made it to lunch. He’ll track you down eventually. And if he stabs a single cultist on the way - if he even _tries_ to smite me -” she stopped pacing, and looked at Crowley with her impassive, grey eyes, daring him to complete her sentence. 

Crowley began to word a protest that there was no guarantee that Aziraphale would show up. But the angel had occasionally shown up to bail the demon out of sticky situations, whether to provide an excuse not to attend one of Beelzebub’s team-building seminars, or to fend off overzealous Roman tax collectors. There was no chance that Aziraphale _wouldn’t_ come to rescue Ixtaca. And when he did - 

“Wrath,” Crowley whispered. 

“Exactly,” said Daeva. She turned to one of the hooded cultists. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” she ordered. “I’m off to get the mark.” 

“Aye-aye, boss,” said the cultist. 

Daeva threw one more look at the caged demon, regarding him coolly. Then, she whirled her feathered cloak around her and marched out of the stone hall. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

The hall was stultifyingly stuffy, and not at all conducive to plotting and scheming. But it served only as additional motivation for Crowley to escape, once the shock of realizing that Daeva had co-opted his Reverse Sidonese Prisoner Scheme had passed. She wouldn’t have stolen his plan, though, if it hadn’t been a good plan. Crowley was absolutely going to file a patent for the Reverse Sidonese Prisoner when he got out. But he did need to get out before Aziraphale showed up. Crowley estimated he had at least a few hours until then, which was plenty. 

Daeva had posted a dozen guards around the room to watch Crowley, which was a precaution he found fairly flattering once he’d calmed down enough to survey his surroundings. Only two of them were armed with actual weapons - obsidian-edged clubs. Underneath their cloaks, he could make out the outlines of bulky, padded tunics. The rest of the guards’ cloaks were of somewhat lesser quality, and they were armed only with farm tools. Those of the agricultural bent were probably the  _ actual _ cultists, more concerned with sustainable farming techniques than Daeva’s wager, whereas the others were likely to have been hired directly by Daeva to strongarm the others into compliance. 

None of the guards seemed particularly threatened by the presence of one demon in a cage, so Crowley turned his attention to his prison. There was no lock to pick - the barred door of the cage was closed with a simple latch mechanism that was tied tightly shut. Crowley wormed his arms through the bars of the cage to try and loosen the latch, but he couldn’t see the latch from his vantage point inside the cage to unpick the knots holding the cage closed. 

The two closest cultists took notice just as Crowley had figured out what knot was holding the cage shut. “Hands off the door,” said the taller cultist threateningly. 

Crowley raised his hands, palms up. “I’m thirsty,” he said plaintively. “What do I have to do to get a mug of water around here?” 

“We’re not allowed to give you water,” said the shorter cultist. 

“What harm could it do? It’s not like I’m going to drown anyone in a cup of water.” 

“It could get us fired,” fretted the taller cultist. “We’re on notice as it is.” 

“Come on, guys,” beseeched Crowley. 

The taller cultist pointed at his mask. “Is my mask muffling my words, or are you deaf? No water!” 

“Come again?” said Crowley. 

The taller cultist abandoned his post to stomp across the hall, and up onto the wooden dais. He loosened the wide ribbons holding the mask to his face, so that the mask dropped to his chest, and the cultist was eye-to-eye with Crowley through the bars of the cage. “No. Water,” he said very loudly and slowly, as if speaking was a simpleton. Then, he squinted at the demon. “Do I know you?” 

“I, er, shopped at Quetzalcoatl’s Garden Emporium a few days ago.” 

The shorter cultist joined her comrade in front of Crowley’s cage. “It’s Quetzalcoatl’s Private Security, now,” she said, and flipped her mask back to reveal straggly waves of hair. “We’re diversifying our portfolio of services.” 

“Might as well be Quetzalcoatl’s Costume Atelier,” said the male cultist. He tapped the woman’s mask in disgust. “Stupid masks are heavy. Can’t see out of them, either. Not fit for anything except a stage play.” 

“I think they’re nice. Stylish. Only a  _ little _ flashy,” said Crowley. 

“Nobody asked you,” said the woman. Both she and the man looked much cleaner than the first time Crowley had encountered them, but also much less happy. 

“I take it the doomsday preparations aren’t going well,” said the demon. 

The man and the woman looked at each other, and then at Crowley. “The boss says there’s no profit in prepping,” said the man. “Y’know, between the cost of storage, adoption of just-in-time production, and global economic uncertainty.” 

“We tried to negotiate, but then she hired scabs instead. We just didn’t have a leg to stand on afterwards,” said the woman. She shifted her digging-stick to her other hand. “But that’s just the way business is, eh?” 

“Seems to me business is going awfully well, for you boss to afford masks for you all,” said Crowley casually. “How many of you are there?” 

The man shrugged. “About a hundred. Why?” 

“There’s a hundred of you, and one of her,” said Crowley. “Why don’t you just - y’know -” 

“No, I don’t know,” said the man. 

Crowley straightened up in the cage. “She needs you. But you don’t need her. Rise up against your oppressors. Seize the means of production.” The demon felt vaguely proud that he’d come up with such a catchy call-to-arms on the spot. He’d have to put that to paper sometime. Maybe after he got his hands on a printing press.

But both cultists blanched beneath their tans. “Oh, no, we can’t do that,” said the woman.

“There’d be complete chaos. Who’d be in charge?” said the man.

“It could be all of you,” said Crowley. “The Athenians ousted their archons. And the Romans stole their city back from the tyrant kings. You could throw Daeva out on her ear. You could take your home back.” He neglected to mention that Athenian democracy had been spotted with oligarchic insurrection and that the Roman Republic had come to a nasty end in a series of civil wars, but that really wasn’t relevant to the point at hand.

“That’s insane,” said the man.

“So is Daeva. You all deserve better than the likes of her.” 

“And you think that violent revolution is the way to do it?” 

“In this case, yes!” yelped Crowley. This was taking  _ far _ too long. Were these cultists just particularly obstinate, or was he losing his touch? 

The woman lowered her voice. “How do we know you’re not just a mole the boss planted, trying to figure out which one of us is loyal, and which one isn’t?” 

“You can trust me,” said Crowley. “Come on, I’m in a cage, without water or food -” 

“That’s part of the test,” said the man, undeterred. “I bet you get hazard pay for those conditions.” 

“Nobody gets hazard pay around here!” shouted Crowley. “Or holidays, or sick leave! Only those rubbish masks!” He threw up his hands and sat back down in the cage in disgust. 

“Hey, I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, but you’re just not making sense,” said the male cultist. 

“Just like that last guy who showed up,” said the woman. “That management consultant. Told us we should unionize, which backfired real hard.” 

“Yeah, but that’s because I - he didn’t know what you were up against,” said Crowley. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Daeva’s not just a terrible boss. She’s a demon.” 

The woman squinted at Crowley. “Is that some kind of slur, cos if it is, I’ll -” 

“It’s the truth,” protested Crowley. 

“Yeah, right,” said the man.

“What is  _ wrong _ with you people? Don’t you want to be free of Daeva?” 

The man shrugged. “Hey, we want to believe you. But you come here uninvited -” 

“- rolled up in a rug!” 

“- order us to bring you water, tell us that we ought to uproot our entire way of life, and sling names around. Why should we believe you? We at Quetzalcoatl’s Private Security take our jobs very seriously.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Quetzalcoatl? I’ll show you Quetzalcoatl,” he muttered. Crowley took a deep breath and  _ stretched _ . The demon’s outline blurred as he grew to assume a serpentine form. The effect was somewhat ruined, though, because the cage was far too cramped to let the demon rise to his full height. 

The cultists did not look impressed. The man rubbed his eyes. “Must’ve been a bad batch of cave-mushrooms,” he muttered. 

“Me too,” said the woman, looking only slightly squeamish. “I’d better check on the hydroponics -” 

“I  _ order _ you to let me out of the cage,” said Crowley. 

“Don’t tell me what to do. I’m an adult,” said the man. “And a sovereign citizen. I’m beholden to the laws of no man -” 

“I’m your god! The one who’ll bring about the new age of peace and prosperity!” Crowley looked beseechingly at the crowd that was gathering in front of the cage. Some of the cultists wore masks, and some had digging-sticks in their hands, but none of them were making any move to let the demon out of the cage. 

“I’m not sold on the god thing. You might still be a figment of my imagination,” said the man stubbornly. “Besides, you ain’t much of a god if you’re trapped in the cage. And even if you weren’t, you don’t get to tell us what to do.” 

“And the truth is, we don’t really care about gods here,” said the woman. 

“But you’ve got this giant manor! Aquifers in the basement! Aquaponics coming out your ears!”

“We care about  _ those _ ,” said the woman, “because once Doomsday actually rolls around, we don’t fancy getting mown down by the giant walls of fire -” 

“- or the army of jaguars,” added the man enthusiastically. 

“- or the deluge of blood,” finished the woman, with a dreamy look on her face. “Or the earthquakes that knock the sun from the sky and cast us all in eternal night -” 

The top of the cage was pressing uncomfortably on the top of Crowley’s neck. “Come on, guys, let me out,” he begged. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” repeated the man. His face was growing red with frustration. “The boss didn’t believe in our mission, but that doesn’t mean you get to order us around.” 

“I can give you the end of the world,” said Crowley. “I can give you the chance to watch a new era dawn. I can give you the chance to prove Daeva wrong. I can give you the chance to -” 

Two of Daeva’s armed goons approached the dais. “Alright, break it up,” one of them ordered, swinging his club experimentally. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” said the man again, with increased belligerence, but he still hadn’t turned his gaze from the demon in the cage. 

“Stop lollygagging, you’re still on the clock -” 

“I said, don’t tell me what to do!” The man swung around, not seeing who was approaching. He cold-clocked the armed guard, who swayed in place for a second before crumpling onto the ground. 

Crowley, the cultists, and the remaining guard stared at the man, who was breathing hard, fist still clenched. Some of the cultists lifted their masks up off their faces, as if they couldn’t believe what they were seeing. 

Then the remaining cultists cheered, and swarmed towards the second guard. Though he was better armed and trained, he didn’t fancy his chances against ten bloodthirsty, smelly farmers. He turned tail and ran for the door at the end of the hall. The cultists followed, yelling battle cries. 

But the man and the woman remained. “Did you mean it?” asked the woman. “I mean, it’s a bit premature, but - can you really give us Doomsday? Can you really give us the chance to prove that we’ve been right all along?” Her cheeks were flushed with anticipation. 

“I can,” said Crowley. “I mean, I’m Quetzalcoatl, aren’t I? Open the door and see.” 

The man and the woman glanced at each other. Then the woman pried open the cage door with her digging stick, slicing through the twine holding the latch closed. The door heaved open, and Crowley slithered out. The demon’s lipless mouth was stretched wide in what might’ve been a grin, if not for the utter lack of humour in his slitted golden eyes. 

Outside the window, the crows roosting in the monkeypod tree took flight. 


	13. Oggy Oggy Oggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley facilitates a riot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to Billy Boyd and Robert Muchamore, as I have taken inspiration from them for several phrases in this chapter.

Crowley was no stranger to labour disputes, morality-motivated mayhem, and general riotry. Over the years, he’d participated in more revolts than he could count - not all of them, of course. Just the best ones. The demon had fought in most of the crusades: sometimes for Jerusalem, sometimes for Rome, and sometimes only for his own skin. His fingerprints were literally and figuratively all over the Magna Carta, though the former were mostly on the back of the parchment, in spots that Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to check. And he’d been more than happy to rampage through the Latin Quarter of Paris with the local university students after one particularly festive Shrove Tuesday. 

But it’d be remiss not to add the very first uprising to that list. No, that honour went to the sequence of philosophical disputes and theological schisms that had culminated in the Fall. Crowley liked to recall that it had all started as a passionate debate in a celestial forum between Lucifer and Michael, where angels on both sides had rallied behind their respective leaders. The debate would have turned into shouting and _ad hominem_ insults, which would have turned into a few well-placed shoves between archangels, which would have turned into a good old-fashioned riot through the streets of Heaven. Crowley could see the entire scene in his mind’s eye. Angels brawling with other angels. Lucifer slipping on a pair of electrum knuckles and giving Michael his closing arguments with his fists. Flaming swords and flaming torches dancing through the air. And Crowley would’ve been in the forefront of it all, merrily swinging a cudgel in one hand, and gifting Gabriel the two-fingered salute with the other. 

Or so he imagined. In truth, the exact sequence of events that constituted the Fall had slipped his mind over time, but he enjoyed his version. 

In any case, Crowley had nearly always been on the winning side of an uprising, unless there were other supernatural forces at work. And in this case, there weren’t, because Daeva was currently not in possession of most of her powers after having signed the Terms and Conditions of the wager. So Crowley felt fairly optimistic about the one that was materializing before him in the summer palace at that very moment. The sconces on the stone walls had been lit, despite the afternoon light that streamed through the narrow windows of the hall. The cultists had assembled with surprising alacrity, and now filled over half the hall. They all stood shoulder-to-shoulder, dressed in a mismatch of dusty peasant’s garb and dark cloaks. Their stone-tiled masks hung loosely from their necks as they gazed towards the wooden dais with hungry, hopeful eyes. 

Crowley himself was not on that wooden dais anymore. After he’d been released from his cage, he’d shifted back into a human form to stand amongst the cultists. One oversized serpent would more likely serve as a target for the opposing forces than to turn the tide if fighting broke out. The demon stood on his toes to do a quick headcount, and was unsurprised to find that the cultists numbered far more than the hundred that his two liberators had claimed. That would surely be enough to put up a good fight against Daeva’s men. Her guards had scattered after the cultists had assembled in the hall, and though Crowley didn’t doubt that they’d regroup eventually, he had a good feeling about the odds. 

Sure, he couldn’t access most of his demonic powers after he’d made the wager, but then again, neither could Daeva. And Crowley doubted very much so that Daeva had his experience in the intricacies of labour relations. _She_ hadn’t organized the Tribune of the Plebs. _She_ hadn’t united the Germanic tribes against Rome. _She_ hadn’t - 

The sound of a digging-stick slamming into the floor in front of him interrupted Crowley’s thoughts. The female cultist who had let Crowley out of the cage had climbed onto the rotting wooden dais at the end of the hall to rally her compatriots. 

“What do we want?” she shouted. 

“Doomsday!” the crowd roared back. They began to bang their weapons and farm tools down on the mud tile of the hall. The thumps echoed against the stone walls of the summer palace. 

“When do we want it?” 

“Now!”

Crowley had considered asking all the cultists to pipe down and get started on their search for Daeva, so they could lock _her_ up in the cage instead. But the cultists were all so riled up that they’d probably be happy to imprison their former boss on the flimsiest of pretenses. There were several potential excuses he could use, including “a sacrifice to herald the end of the age,” “your god Quetzalcoatl demands it,” and even “c’mon guys, you _know_ she has it coming.” 

But between the cacophony of the gathering and Daeva’s little corvid snitches in the garden, there was little chance the Underduke had not realized something was amiss. There was no need to go and send out a search party to find Daeva - she’d be back soon enough, most likely with reinforcements. But Crowley was not worried that she’d return with Aziraphale at her heels, ready to commit Wrath in Ixtaca’s name. Sufficient time simply had not passed for Daeva to travel to Tenochtitlan and back again. 

“What do we want?” shouted the female cultist, again. 

“Doomsday!” yelled the crowd. The stamp of feet and weapons against the ground rolled through the stone hall like thunder. 

“When do we want it?” 

“Now!” 

Just as Crowley thought his eardrums might burst, the doors of the hall swung open. Daeva was silhouetted in the wide doorframe of the summer palace, with several dozen hired guards behind her. “Stand down,” she shouted. A huge curved horn amplified her voice, so that it cut easily through the din. 

The clamour dimmed as the crowd of cultists turned around at the sound of Daeva’s arrival. The pounding of digging-sticks against the ground stuttered, and then stopped entirely. The woman on the wooden dais who’d been rallying the cultists lowered her digging stick as her bravado faltered. 

There was silence but for the slap of feet against the ground as Daeva’s men flowed through the door to line up in neat rows at the back of the hall. The guards were clad in padded cotton tunics. In one hand they carried round wooden shields without insignia, and vicious stone-studded clubs with the other.

The guards faced off against the crowd. Crowley could hear murmurs of fear spreading between the cultists. 

But Crowley wasn’t afraid anymore. He shouldered his way through the cultists to clamber up onto the wooden dais. His eyes met Daeva’s at the far end of the hall. The other demon’s mouth pursed when she saw him, as if she’d bitten into an apple and found half a worm inside. Crowley grinned, and turned his attention back to the crowd of cultists. “What do you want?” he shouted. 

And that was all it took for the cultists to remember why they’d gathered. “Doomsday!” they screamed. The beating of agricultural paraphernalia against the ground resumed, at double its previous tempo and volume.

“When do you want it?” said Crowley. 

“Now!” 

“Then _go get it,”_ commanded Crowley, and he pointed at Daeva. 

In retrospect, the imperative made no sense, but Crowley seemed to have gotten his point effectively across nonetheless. The crowd roared anew, and rushed towards the other demon and her guards. 

Daeva stepped back, letting the guards shield her with their girth. The guards were armed and armoured, and the cultists had only crude slingshots and farm tools. But there were five cultists to each guard. They crashed against Daeva’s forces like a wave against a stone cliff. The guards stumbled backwards before the relentless torrent of the cultists’ pent-up frustrations. 

An amplified chant went up over the fighting. “We’ve just nicked your horn, we’ve just nicked your horn, la-la-la.” 

Crowley laughed. So what if the cultists were only a few pitchforks short of a classic peasant revolt? It had been decades since he’d had a good riot. The demon jumped off the wooden dais and into the fray. Then he pushed his way towards the back of the hall where Daeva had stood, dodging wild cudgel-swings left and right. 

But when Crowley finally broke free of the fracas, Daeva was no longer there. The demon hissed with contempt. Had she slipped outside?

The cultists, on the other hand, were not concerned about the location of their former leader. Their next chant came with more purpose. “Let’s give the scabs the boot, let’s give the scabs the boot, la-la-la.” 

“That’s more like it,” muttered Crowley. It seemed that the cultists had picked up _something_ from their previous unionization efforts, after all. He let himself get swept up in the cultists’ momentum, as they began to herd Daeva’s guards outside. The fighting trickled out into the garden. 

But then Crowley saw that Daeva had blocked the garden gate with one of the huge, fake prophecy stones. It stood out in the garden like a polar bear in a jungle. The cultists wouldn’t be able to expel the strikebreakers while it still stood. 

The demon broke free of the main horde and made a beeline for the prophecy stone. Three other cultists saw where he was headed, and followed him. They grasped the stone, two on each side, and pulled. More cultists fell out of the fray to join the demon. Crowley braced his feet against the ground and heaved with all his might. 

The stone fell face-first to the ground, and cracked in half. The man in possession of Daeva’s horn let out a new cry: “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out, la-la-la.” A mighty cheer erupted from the cultists, and they spilled out of the old palace, buffeting Daeva’s goons towards the front of the garden the entire time. 

Crowley climbed up onto the fallen prophecy stone for a better view. He braced himself, hands on his knees, panting from the exertion. The cultists were slowly but surely pushing Daeva’s hirelings towards the gate. Many of the guards had already been divested of their padded tunics and their cudgels, and looked somewhat worse for the wear. The cultist in possession of Daeva’s horn had given up putting together coherent rallying cries in favour of bellowing whichever nonsense came most readily to mind, which at that moment was, “Oggy, oggy, oggy!” 

Without missing a beat, the cultists responded, “Oi, oi, oi!” 

Crowley could nearly have wept a tear of joy. The cultists had the situation well in hand. The demon’s job here was done. There was nothing to stop him from staying at the summer palace, now. He could escape. He could regroup. Hell, he could even give the Reverse Sidonese Prisoner Scheme another go. 

But out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small grey figure flit around the clashing guards and cultists, back inside the summer palace. 

Crowley wavered, but for a shorter time than he’d have liked. “Shit,” he muttered. Then, he turned away from the garden, and followed Daeva back inside. 

Pandemonium still reigned inside the great hall. Clubs and digging sticks clashed. Pebbles flung from slings flew over the melee. Crowley could not tell where Daeva had gone. But he could still smell traces of her aura. 

He closed his eyes, and sought out for the first time the trail of blood and ashes. 

There was definitely blood in the air - blood from the cultists and the guards alike, like a bundle of razor-sharp wires cutting through the smells of wet stone and sweat. But the smell of ashes was a trail as bright as any beacon. Crowley opened his eyes, and he pushed his way through the crowd towards the back of the hall. There was a wooden door there, its outlines half-hidden by moss and dirt. 

Crowley threw himself against the door with all his strength. It did not budge - Daeva must’ve barred it from the other side when she’d escaped. “Come on, come on,” growled Crowley. He planted his feet in the dirt floor of the hall, cursing the slippery soles of his sandals. “I could use a little help here,” he called over his shoulder. 

Another pair of hands appeared next to his own. “About time,” said the demon. Together, they pushed the door until something gave way on the other side, and it scraped open, revealing a long, dark tunnel that descended into the earth. “Thanks,” Crowley grunted. 

He turned around, and saw that the hands belonged to Aziraphale. Shock rippled through the demon. “What’re you doing here?” he said, gobsmacked. There hadn’t been enough _time_ for Daeva to send word to Tenochtitlan of Ixtaca’s capture by cultists. 

The angel’s face was stormy, and his tone accusatory. “I should be asking you that. What are you _doing_ , Ixtaca?” 

Crowley grasped for plausible excuses that he could employ, and found nothing but thin air. “Uh. Just lending a hand to my associates,” said Crowley. “You know me. Ixtaca the helpful scholar, always looking out for the common folk. Just can’t stop sticking my nose in places it doesn’t belong. But everything’s under control now. Nothing to see.” He edged around Aziraphale, his back to the wall, until he’d positioned himself squarely between the angel and the tunnel.

Aziraphale’s gaze flickered from the demon to the bedlam in the hall, and then back to the demon again. “You missed lunch. I thought you’d merely forgotten, but then some actors accosted me, claiming that you owed them payment for some cultist improvisation -” 

Actors. Cultists. Of course Aziraphale had drawn a line between Tozi’s troupe, whom Crowley had hired to play cultists, and the _actual_ cultists in the mountains. But the angel wasn’t finished yet. 

“- And then I come up here and find you neck-deep in a riot? I haven’t seen a labour dispute this messy since - since -” Aziraphale trailed off, but his eyes narrowed slightly, and Crowley feared he’d insist on dragging Ixtaca bodily out of the fray - 

“I’ll help,” said the angel. 

Aziraphale’s volunteering of assistance was somehow worse than a protest. “Oh, there’s really no need,” began Crowley. 

“I’ll help,” repeated Aziraphale, and Crowley knew the angel’s mind had been made up. “What do you need?” 

Crowley didn’t answer straight away. He glanced down the tunnel behind him. Its walls were hard-packed earth, and knobbly tree roots protruded at random from the uneven ground. The demon grabbed two lit torches from the sconces on the palace walls, and handed one to Aziraphale. Then, he used his free hand to steady himself as he descended into the tunnel, racking his brains the entire time for a way to get rid of Aziraphale.

Daeva had very few of her powers, but he didn’t want her anywhere near the angel. It was too dangerous. Aziraphale was probably out of practice with any sort of weaponry, anyways. Just one misplaced stab, one missed parry, even one slip-and-fall on a slippery floor - and _heigh, ho, off to the Recorporation Office you go_. Not to mention the risk that Daeva might actually succeed in inciting Wrath, and win the wager. Luckily, the cultists’ tunnels probably ran for miles underground, if their asides about the “mushroom caves” had been any indication. The Underduke had gone one way, so Crowley would send Aziraphale on a wild turkey chase the other way. And if Crowley’s luck held, then ne’er shall the twain meet. 

A fork approached in the tunnel. Crowley could smell Daeva’s aura faintly down the tunnel to the left. “You take the right tunnel. I’ll take the left,” said Crowley. 

“What are we looking for?” said Aziraphale.

“Ah, the former head cultist,” said Crowley, still peering into the darkness of the tunnel. “She’s gone mad with power. It was only a matter of time before her people revolted. They’ll want to hold her for trial. So of course I’ve got to help find her.” 

“And how will I know who she is?” said Aziraphale. 

“You’ll know when you see her,” said Crowley. He affixed what he hoped was a trustworthy expression on his face, all wide eyes and guileless pout, and turned around to face the angel. 

“Will I really, though?” said Aziraphale. “Will I really know them when I see them?” It was too dark in the tunnel to read his expression properly, but Crowley was sure he _heard_ the angel’s eyebrow lift. 

“Trust me,” said Crowley. “Please.” His heart was beginning to race. Daeva had at least a minute’s head start. He needed to shake the angel soon, or she’d escape. Aziraphale’s face was still stony, and he made no move to go down his assigned tunnel. “Well, off we go,” Crowley said lightly, and nudged the angel’s shoulder encouragingly, stepping towards the path on the left. 

“Wait,” said Aziraphale suddenly. Crowley turned back in irritation. There was no time to explain what was going on, not that the demon had any intention of letting the angel get anywhere _near_ Daeva - 

But instead of blathering pedantically about the whys and wherefores of their descent into the tunnel, Aziraphale grabbed the front of Crowley’s cloak with his free hand, pulled him close, and kissed him hard on the mouth. 

Crowley backed himself into a tunnel wall and nearly dropped his torch in surprise. He’d never been kissed like that, not by man, woman, or demon. He saw stars, his stomach lurched, and then maybe - maybe - he felt just a bit of tongue. Or maybe it was his imagination. 

No, scratch that. Crowley’s imagination might have conjured up a kiss or two over the past few centuries. He couldn’t help it, not on the occasions where the angel had pulled off a clever scheme in the back rooms of some city tavern, or cooed particularly excessively over a new hand-illuminated manuscript in a firelit monastery, or when they’d both gotten gently stewed over wine of middling quality in the Papal palace. But never, ever had Crowley imagined a kiss set against a backdrop of secret Aztec tunnels, rampaging doomsday cultists, and the worst wager he’d ever had the misfortune to make - 

Then, just as suddenly as the kiss had begun, it ended. Aziraphale pulled away, and the feeling of the angel’s lips was replaced with a rush of cold tunnel air. 

“What - what was that for?” said Crowley. The packed-dirt wall was rough against his back, and his head was spinning, as if he’d stood up too quickly, or if he’d been hit on the head by one of the cultists’ digging sticks. And to top it all off, he hadn’t even had the presence of mind to remember to  _ enjoy _ the kiss. 

“Luck,” said Aziraphale. Dark satisfaction glimmered in the angel’s eyes. “I suspect we’ll need as much of it as we can get, before this is through.” He looked as if he was about to say something else. But instead, the angel’s face grew shadowed and the triumph faded from his eyes. "Ixtaca," he said, and nodded brusquely at the demon. Then, Aziraphale turned around and began walking down the right-hand tunnel without a second glance.

Crowley stood stock-still at the fork of the tunnel for a second longer. One hand was clenched around his torch. He raised the other to his lips, as if he could still feel the echo of the angel’s mouth upon his own. 

Then he turned away from Aziraphale’s retreating form, and ventured forth into the darkness on the left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. No, that is not actually how the Fall went down. Crowley doesn't remember, and is just making shit up. The actual sequence of events is detailed in OMwP (#1 of this series).  
> 2\. Yes, Aziraphale's figured it out at last.


	14. Goeth Before the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley catches up with Daeva.

The worst part of it all was that Crowley could not even tell if that kiss had even counted as Lust. He was fairly sure it should have, what with the angel’s tongue in his mouth and all, but that fleeting look of calculated satisfaction that had crossed Aziraphale’s face at the end spoke as much to a well-played chess gambit as to a sudden, momentary weakness of the flesh. Maybe Crowley had imagined that gleam in the angel’s eyes. Maybe it had only been a trick played by the flickering firelight in the subterranean gloom. Regardless, it was too dark to check his ring properly - the light of his torch turned both the red and grey stones in his ring to a sickly orange. 

The air grew colder and the tunnel grew narrower as Crowley descended into the bowels of the earth. Before long, his torch began to burn low and flutter, and he had to hunch over so as not to scrape his head against the rough ceiling. The demon wished he still had his hat, as his hair was undoubtedly full of spiders at this point. Then, he turned a corner, right into a dead end. 

“Shit,” he muttered. Whereas the tunnel behind him had been mostly made of hard-packed earth, the wall before him was solid grey rock. Crowley set his torch down on the ground, leaning it against the wall. Then he braced himself against the ground, set his shoulder against the wall, and pushed. 

The rock did not budge. Yet the smell of blood and ashes still lingered - 

Near where the demon had set his torch down was a crack in the bottom of the wall, about two feet wide. Too narrow for a man or a child to crawl through, but not for a badger. Or a raven. Or even a large snake. Crowley crouched down and held his torch to the opening, willing it to light the path ahead. The passage beyond looked to be just as narrow as the opening, and the demon could not see how far it went: only that once he ventured inwards, it would be too narrow to turn around in. There would be no going back. But he smelled Daeva’s trail in the passage, and that made Crowley’s decision easy. 

The demon reluctantly dropped his torch to the ground and stamped out the fire. The tunnel flickered once - twice - in the guttering flame, and then was plunged into complete darkness. Then, Crowley crouched down to the ground. His spine stretched, and the borders of his body wavered, until the demon had become a snake again. Crowley flicked out his tongue, tasting blood and ashes in the air, trickling through the crevice, along with the unmistakable scent of fresh air and water. Slowly, he slithered blindly into the passage. 

The ground was cold against his belly, and the passage was narrow. The tunnel seemed to press in on him from all sides. Now and then, a rogue rock would scrape against his side, or he’d bump his head on the uneven ceiling. But there was only one way forwards, and the darkness seemed to lift the further he travelled. 

Aziraphale would not be able to follow Crowley through the tunnel, which was just fine with the demon. He needed to keep the angel as far away from Daeva as possible, lest the Underduke win the wager, regain all her powers, and channel them all into Aziraphale’s corpus in a fit of retaliation. But with any luck, the angel was currently lost in the cultists’ subterranean labyrinth of chinampa pools and mushroom caves. Crowley felt a tiny stab of guilt for sending Aziraphale on a wild-turkey chase, but he smothered it swiftly. The angel was safer this way, he reminded himself. It was all for the best. Crowley could deal with Daeva on his own. Then he’d have all the time in the world to win the wager, banish the Underduke from Earth, save Tenochtitlan from the Horsemen’s untimely rampages, and then maybe, _maybe_ , join Aziraphale in Italy for dinner after the “Pope situation” had sorted itself out - 

The demon turned yet another corner. There was a pinprick of light in the distance, and now he could hear the thundering of water crashing and tumbling over rock. Crowley ignored the scrape of stone against his scales, and quickened his pace. 

The tunnel grew taller, and wider, until the demon emerged into a small, shadowy cavern, little more than an alcove in the side of a cliff. It was bounded on three sides by wet, slippery rock, and the fourth side opened up to a sheer curtain of water. What light that shone into the cave was cool and grey. The wind was strong, sending intermittent gusts of water spraying across the cavern. 

It was a waterfall, Crowley realized. It was the waterfall upon which the entire cultist’s hideout had been perched. 

Daeva stood at the edge of the cavern, gazing at the water, her hands clasped behind her back. Her grey dress was dark from the waterfall’s mist, and water droplets rolled off her skin and her feathers. No sooner had Crowley slithered fully out into the open did she turn around, fixing him with her dead, grey eyes. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said. “I thought you’d run away. You do that a lot, don’t you?” 

“You’re the one who ran back here,” retorted Crowley. “Don’t blame you, though. You don’t stand a chance without your powers or your pet cultists.” His tongue flicked out to taste the air, and he glanced over the cavern ledge. The drop was dizzyingly high, and Crowley quickly turned his eyes back to Daeva.

Daeva smiled slightly. “Did you think I led you here to slug it out, mano-a-mano?” 

“Bit of fisticuffs never did any harm,” said Crowley. He slithered closer to the edge of the waterfall. Then, fangs bared, he feinted a strike at Daeva. 

She didn’t even blink, even as her feathers rustled in the wake of the attack. “You can’t frighten me, Crowley. Nothing frightens me anymore. So you may as well just go belly-up. Just like Rome. Just like Paris. Just like Tenochtitlan.” She listed each city’s name with increasing venom.

“Good thing I’ll win our wager, since you hate it up here so much,” retorted Crowley, rearing up. “You’ll be back to editing Manuscripts for manuscripts and fetching coffee for Beelzebub in no time -” 

“Earth, Hell, Tenochtitlan - it’s all the same to me nowadays,” said Daeva. 

But Crowley wasn’t listening. “- and Earth will be all the better for it,” he continued. “Tenochtitlan doesn’t deserve you. And you didn’t deserve Taxila and Kesh. They’re better off dead than with you.” He lunged at Daeva again, and this time it was not a feint.

She dodged in a whirl of feathers, darting away from the cavern ledge, but her fingers lengthened into long, knife-sharp talons. A light flickered within her eyes, like a beacon in the wind. “You’ve no right to talk about those cities,” Daeva snarled. “Not when Paris and Rome went down on your watch. That’s why you’re here in Mexico, aren’t you? You’re afraid to face your mistakes.” Her claws flashed by, inches from Crowley’s face. 

“My only mistake was that I brought only one crossbow to Messina instead of two,” said Crowley. “Lord knows how you got promoted to Underduke, seeing as you’re moonlighting as Gabriel’s errand-girl.” He pulled back out of reach, warily watching Daeva’s hands as she flexed her claws. 

“It doesn’t matter what you call me,” Daeva shouted. “We’ve all got a role in the Plan to play, and this is the one that I’ve been given. So I’ll lead the Horsemen to every one of the kingdoms of Earth if I have to. They all deserve it. Why should Tenochtitlan still stand when Kesh does not? And why should _you_ stand here, when all of your cities are burning?” 

Crowley grinned through his wide, lipless mouth. “My sin is Pride, remember?” And with that, he struck at Daeva’s side. She dodged, though with less ease than before, and returned Crowley’s attack with a slash of her own claws. But he’d already slipped away, swaying from side to side just out of her reach. “Too bad your sin is Envy,” he added. “Maybe that’s why you’re such a killjoy. You can only get your rocks off by ruining other people’s fun.”

“You think I brought you down here for fun?” said Daeva. “I brought you down here so I could finally, _finally_ win that accursed wager.” She leapt at Crowley with her teeth bared and her arms outstretched.

Crowley ignored the jab and concentrated on ducking under her attack. He didn’t entirely succeed: Daeva scored two ragged slashes along his scales. But her momentum threw her off balance, and Crowley seized that opportunity to twine himself around her. But his coils caught only air as she shrank into the shape of a grey raven. 

Crowley whipped his head around to see her fly out of reach at the other end of the cavern and reassume a human shape. “You’re doing a terrific job,” he called. “Flying away is _such_ a good strategy -” 

A rumble from deep within the earth interrupted his taunt. Clods of dirt and shards of rock fell off the ceiling of the cavern, bouncing off the ground and into the swirling maelstrom beneath the waterfall. Crowley skidded sideways across the slippery stone as he tried to dodge the falling debris. But he was too large of a target, and too slow, and his wounds stung as they scraped across the cavern floor. Reluctantly, he stepped out of his coils and faced Daeva on two legs. 

The other demon had been knocked off-balance as well, but her mouth had set itself into a grim line. “You were only the bait,” she said. “Besides, it’s too late -” 

The stone rumbled again, punctuated again by the crash of rocks tumbling out of the cavern and into the waterfall. “You’ll bring the entire palace down on top of us,” shouted Crowley. The demon clenched his hands into fists and charged at Daeva, swinging a wild haymaker at her head. 

The Underduke tried to block Crowley’s punch, but she was a fraction too slow, and it hit her squarely in the face. Daeva clutched at her jaw as she staggered from the blow, but the strange light in her eyes had grown even brighter. “It isn’t me,” she said. “You can’t stop it. Neither of us can stop it.” 

Crowley was ready to deliver another punch right to the Underduke’s face, but then a thought occurred to him. If it wasn’t him, and it wasn’t Daeva, then it could only be - 

The wall of the cavern exploded outwards into the face of the waterfall, in a burst of rock and dust. The angel’s voice rang through the air. “Daeva!”

Crowley froze. Aziraphale shouldn’t be here. He should’ve gotten lost in the maze of caverns below the summer palace - unless the angel had realized that Ixtaca had sent him on a wild-turkey chase, and surreptitiously doubled back. It didn’t matter. Aziraphale was already here. 

The demon turned swiftly away from where the tunnel wall had erupted, hiding his face from the angel. It didn’t matter what happened next, but Aziraphale _couldn’t_ find out that Crowley had been behind the Ixtaca facade this entire time. The angel would never forgive him for the deception that had culminated with that stolen kiss. Crowley rubbed his face hastily, blurring his own features and replacing them with Ixtaca’s. There was no mirror or cistern with which to guide the demon’s hand, and Crowley was sure he’d made a complete dog’s breakfast of the scholar’s cheekbones. But it was the best he could do under the circumstances. The demon took a deep breath, and turned around to face the angel.

Aziraphale was absolutely purposeful as he strode towards Daeva. He held no weapons in his hands, but he didn’t need any. The angel was brimming with enough divine wrath to smite Daeva off the face of the Earth with a single Word. 

And if he did that. Well. That’d count as Wrath, in Daeva’s favour. Aziraphale would win the battle, but Crowley would lose the wager. 

But Daeva did not have Crowley’s reservations. “Come on, then,” she shouted. “Have at it!” The brightness in her eyes had turned manic, and her mouth was twisted wide with unholy glee, as if she’d been waiting for the angel’s arrival all along. 

Because, Crowley realized, she _had_ been expecting Aziraphale. She must’ve caught wind of the angel’s arrival at the old summer palace, while Crowley had been busy inciting a riot amongst the cultists. And then she’d disappeared down into the caverns beneath the summer palace, expecting that Crowley might give chase - and that Aziraphale would follow, right on Ixtaca’s heels, ready to defend the hapless scholar.

The demon threw himself between Aziraphale and the Underduke. “No, wait!” he shouted. “You can’t - otherwise she’ll -” His protest died as he slipped across the wet rock at the edge of the cavern. Only a last-second arm flail saved Crowley from cracking his head open and tumbling into the waterfall. 

And mercifully, Aziraphale hesitated. He glanced at Crowley, and his aura dimmed slightly. 

Undeterred, Daeva dashed sideways across the cavern, grabbing Crowley by his hair. A kick to the back of the demon’s legs forced him to his knees at the cavern ledge, dangerously close to the open air below. Then, Daeva unfurled her long, dagger-like nails at Crowley’s throat. 

“Shit -” began Crowley. He reached instinctively upwards, trying to loosen the Underduke’s grip on his throat. The wind blew the waterfall’s spray into the cavern, soaking both demons to the skin. Daeva pressed her nails deeper into his neck. 

“One more step, and I open up a jugular in your precious _scholar_ ,” she shouted, over the waterfall’s echoing din. 

“Put him down, or I’ll make you put him down.” commanded Aziraphale. 

“I’m counting on it,” sneered Daeva. “Come on, _make me_.” 

“You’re surrounded by water,” said Aziraphale. “I can bless it in an instant, and then you’ll be done for. _Put him down._ ” The angel began to glow. 

Fear shot through Crowley, but it was nothing compared to the way the hairs raised on his neck at Daeva’s response. 

“Then do it!” howled Daeva. “It’s what your sort have wanted this whole time, isn’t it? Someone to lead the Horsemen? Someone to do the dirty work when Upstairs is too squeamish to wipe sin from the face of the Earth? Someone to play the villain so you can swoop in like some hero in shining armour? Well, here I am. Go ahead and finish the story!” 

She jabbed her fingers deeper into Crowley’s neck, but he barely felt it. His mind was racing at the speed of light, trying to parse her words and the ghastly light that had lit up her cold, dead, eyes. She couldn’t mean that what she’d said, she couldn’t _really_ want Aziraphale to bless the water that fell inches from the ledge on which she stood - 

But she did mean it, Crowley realized. Because Daeva’s sin wasn’t Envy. Her sin was Sloth. 

Not the Sloth of lazy contentment in a lakeside hammock on a sunny morning, nor the Sloth that tasted of afternoon wine shared on the shady side of an Aquitaine monastery. No, Daeva’s Sloth was the soul-crushing despair that came from watching cities razed, one after the other. It came from the weariness of trying to rebuild from the ashes, again and again, each time failing to recapture the glory of what had been lost. It came from the helpless realization that the Plan was as unstoppable and implacable as Death. And Daeva’s Sloth had spurred her on to lead the Horsemen, because the Horsemen only destroyed. Even demons could create things - Crowley gilding the lily of his favourite cities, Beelzebub organizing her endless team-building conferences, even Melkor writing and rewriting his accursed manuscript - but the Horsemen did not create. And if nothing was created, then there was nothing for Daeva to lose. 

And if there was nothing left for Daeva to lose, then she’d stop at nothing to take Crowley down. Even if it meant going down herself. _Especially_ if it meant being unmade in a torrent of Holy Water. Then she’d be free of her memories of Taxila and Kesh, free of her failures, free of _everything_ \- 

Aziraphale seemed to realize something similar. His eyes flicked from Daeva to Crowley, and anguish flitted across his face like a flame as he locked eyes with the demon. The angel’s aura dimmed again, and the demon realized that Aziraphale had been bluffing all along. Daeva and Ixtaca were too close together. The angel couldn’t use his hands or his Words without chancing a strike at Ixtaca as well - 

The roar of the waterfall seemed to dull, drowned out by the pounding thud of Crowley’s own heartbeat in his head. 

And two paths diverged before Crowley in slow motion. 

Crowley could turn around and attack Daeva. She’d slash his throat with her knife-sharp talons as he ripped himself free of her grasp. But if he was lucky, he’d be able to use the element of surprise to land a single blow, maybe a glancing strike on her shoulder, even as blinding pain set in and blood streamed freely from his wounds. But she’d slash him open before he could attempt a second. Then, with Crowley out of the picture, Daeva would attack Aziraphale. Aziraphale would be forced to defend himself. He might even smite her Wrathfully in retaliation for Ixtaca’s death. Daeva would win the wager. Crowley would be banished from Earth for eternity.

Or Crowley could do nothing. Aziraphale might try to talk Daeva down. But the Underduke would tire of the standoff eventually. She might cut Crowley’s throat, cast his body aside, and then attack Aziraphale. Aziraphale would defend himself, or he might try to avenge Ixtaca’s death. Daeva would win the wager. Crowley would be banished from Earth for eternity -

 _No_ , he interrupted himself. Enough with those binary choices. Enough with trying to pick the lesser of two evils. Crowley was a demon. He could take a third option. He could _make_ a third option. One that kept Daeva and Aziraphale apart. One that bought Crowley time. 

The demon sagged his head forward, as if in defeat. Daeva’s grip on his neck tightened momentarily, before Crowley swung his head backwards with as much force as he could muster, right into her nose. The Underduke yelped in pain, and began to draw her knife-sharp talons across Crowley’s neck. But before she could draw more than a few droplets of blood - 

Crowley reached up and clutched Daeva’s arm tightly in his own. He and Daeva stumbled backwards, one step further away from the angel. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he seemed to realize what was going to happen next. The angel lunged forwards towards both demons, his arm outstretched, his mouth shaping a protest - 

Crowley closed his eyes, and shoved both himself and Daeva backwards into the waterfall. 

Daeva’s cries of rage were drowned out by the roar of the water, but not for long. Crowley could feel her twist in his arms, growing wings and sprouting feathers and tearing at his flesh with her claws, but he only clung on more tightly to the other demon. 

The surface of the water felt akin to stone as they hit it. Lights danced across Crowley’s vision from the force of impact, but he did not loosen his grip on Daeva as they sank beneath the seething churn.

The crash of the waterfall was replaced by a muted roaring in his ears as they grappled with each other in the underwater darkness. Crowley couldn’t hear Aziraphale’s cries, or Daeva’s roars of rage. But most importantly, he could not fight the downward force of swirling water. And neither could Daeva, even as she twisted in his grasp, scratching bloody furrows across his arms and chest. 

Crowley opened his eyes, barely feeling the Underduke’s nails on his skin. He had to stay calm for as long as possible. He had to outlast Daeva. 

The smaller demon redoubled her thrashing. But now instead of trying to escape Crowley’s grasp, she was trying to escape the river. He felt the Underduke’s body convulse as she took in an involuntary lung of water. It wouldn’t be long until Crowley gave in to the urge to breathe, too. 

He waited as long as possible, until Daeva’s struggles grew jerky and feeble, and then he could wait no longer. Crowley opened his mouth and gasped instinctually. Water rushed in, cold in his throat but burning in his chest. He let go of Daeva’s body, trying to swim to the surface. The force of water crashing into the river buffeted him in every direction, like a paper doll in a hurricane. Crowley could not make out which way was up, and the water in his lungs weighed him down like molten sulphur. 

He was going to drown. That had never happened before in his five thousand years of existence. But there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? 

A haze began to fill Crowley’s mind, and he stopped struggling as he sank towards the bottom of the riverbed. The demon turned his face upwards, and saw that the sun was shining on the surface of the river, scattering little gold sunbeams through the water and turning it a serene shade of blue. Blue like the sky. Blue like the angel’s eyes. 

But the blue didn’t stay long. Black specks crept across Crowley’s vision, obliterating the edges and then greedily taking more and more. The pale golden lights dancing on the surface of the water winked out, one by one, until all that was left was darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. My apologies to Sherlock Holmes.  
> 2\. From Aziraphale, earlier in the story: “Well, a bit of well-earned idleness is technically Sloth as well. But the ultimate form of Sloth is despair. To lose hope completely, and to succumb to one’s worst impulses. Perhaps Pride led to the Fall, but Sloth leads to much worse. One who succumbs entirely to Sloth has lost themselves.”


	15. One Good Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Daeva race to get their bodies back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! Sorry, I hit some writer's block and had to revise some things. Should be back on schedule now.

Crowley plummeted through an inky-black void. It was a peaceful kind of plummet, insofar that the waterfall was not thundering in his ears, nobody was trying to tear his throat out, and his corporation had not just taken in two lungfuls of river water. In fact, he had no corporation to speak of at all. 

But the tranquility of his fall was broken by a wet, distant _splat_. 

That was just enough warning for Crowley to wrap his arms protectively around his head before he too broke into the flickering fluorescence of Hell. The demon hit the grubby floor face-first with a wet _splat_ of his own. 

The impact was hard, but surprisingly less painful than one would expect falling through two planes of existence to be. It was also less painful than the way his lungs were beginning to burn from a remembered intrusion of cold water. Crowley peeled his face off the cold, wet floor, rolled onto all fours, and retched until his chest hurt. Nothing came out. He drew a shuddering breath, and stood up on shaky legs, steading himself on a mottled cinder block wall. That hadn’t been the worst way he’d ever gone. Even Aziraphale’s smites hurt more than drowning. 

Daeva seemed to take her discorporation a bit harder than Crowley had, though. She clung to a rusted stair railing, trembling as she tried to pull herself upright. “You -” she coughed and blinked, getting her bearings. “Where are we?” 

“First time at the back entrance, eh?” said Crowley. “Hope you weren’t expecting a welcoming committee.” The lobby flickered around him in its sickly green glory, and Crowley took a cautious step towards the hallway. 

“You have no idea what you’ve just -” began Daeva, before her chest heaved again and she lapsed into another coughing fit. 

“I’ve discorporated us both. Thought you’d know that already, since you were there.” Crowley wiped his lips with the back of his hand, though they were dry. 

The Underduke spat out a word that sounded like _disqualification_ between coughs. 

“No, the wager’s still on,” said Crowley. “Between the kidnapping, and the Marrakeshan stand-off, that had to count as self-defence. There’s a clause for that.” 

“Then defend against this,” snarled Daeva. She wrenched herself from the railing and lunged at Crowley, her claws outstretched. Neither demon actually had bodies, though, and Daeva’s attack was as insubstantial as she was. She overbalanced, missing Crowley by a narrow margin, and fell into a puddle below a leaky pipe. 

“Oops,” said Crowley. 

Daeva lifted her head out of the puddle. Dirty water dripped from the feathers that grew from her head, and her eyes glittered with anger. “I’m going to get a body. I’m going to win our little wager. And then I’ll show you the meaning of _loss._ ” 

“Good luck with the first part,” said Crowley. “The guys at the Discorporation Office like me better than you.” 

Daeva seemed to realize the same thing. She bared her teeth at Crowley, and pulled herself out of the puddle. Then she took off sprinting in the direction of the Discorporation Office. 

Crowley sauntered leisurely down the dim hallway after her. There was no rush. They’d both get their bodies back, but he’d get back to Earth first. Chances were not good that he’d be able to navigate Nyx’s byzantine paperwork system before Aziraphale returned to Europe. But chances were even worse that Daeva would be able to fill out her requisite forms to Nyx and Bob’s satisfaction at all. And that had to count for something, didn’t it? 

He could hear Daeva’s voice growing louder and louder as he approached the Discorporation Office. Crowley closed his eyes as he pressed his hand on the tarnished brass doorknob. Then he pushed it open. 

The Office was just as he’d remembered. On the left side of Nyx’s desk was an array of wall-mounted paper trays, each containing a jumble of forms that ranged in colour from orange to pink to crimson. On the right side was a set of three plastic child-sized lawn chairs, yellowed from age. And directly in front of Nyx’s desk was - 

“- and I want to see your manager!” said Daeva. Dirty water was still dripping off her dress, leaving dark splotches on a carpet of indeterminate colour.

“Feel free to make an appointment with Beelzebub. I’m sure she’d  _ love _ to hob-nob with some jumped-up nobody with  _ no body _ ,” said Nyx. The diminutive, curly-haired demon was lounging in her swivel chair, with cloven hooves propped up on the front desk, and a supremely unbothered expression on her face. Endless rows of filing cabinets loomed and swayed in the chasm beyond. She nodded at Crowley over the Underduke’s head. “Wotcher, Crowley,” she said. 

“Bugger off, I was here first,” snapped Daeva, stepping between Nyx and Crowley. 

“No, Crowley was clearly here first,” said Nyx. “Isn’t that right, Bob?” 

Bob poked his largest pseudopod timidly out from around his cubicle wall and gurgled in assent. His body was a paler shade of green then normal and pulsating unpleasantly as he swivelled his eye-stalks rapidly between Crowley and Daeva. 

“Hey, Nyx,” said Crowley. “Sorry I haven’t got any of that goat’s blood.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Isn’t every day that we get an Underduke of Hell applying for a new body.” 

“Beelzebub will hear about this,” said Daeva. 

“Beelzebub _will_ hear about this,” said Nyx. “In fact, I’ll tell her myself at my next performance review. It’ll make a Hell of a story. Might even get a raise out of it. There I was, minding my own business, when some jumped-up Underduke barges in and tries to circumvent the entire system.” 

Crowley coughed. “Speaking of which,” he said politely. 

“Oh, yeah,” said Nyx. “Bob, pass him the clipboard.” 

Bob pulled a clipboard with an inch-high stack of pink papers clipped to it from somewhere within his monk’s habit. With a whir of a tentacle, he threw the clipboard to Crowley like a discus. Crowley caught it with one hand. The clipboard was covered with a pale, mucous-like discharge. He suppressed a shudder, and held the clipboard as firmly as he could with two fingers only. “You got a pen?” 

“Norprorblor,” gurgled Bob. The demon seemed to suck in a deep breath. Then, he exhaled violently and expelled a reed pen from his corpus. It flew, straight as an arrow, to embed itself in the wall behind Crowley’s head. 

Crowley pulled the pen out of the wall. It left a hole in the cinderblock wall, much like the other dozen holes in the wall. “Thanks, Bob,” he said. The pen looked very much like Aziraphale’s favourite reed pen, though somewhat worse for wear. It was almost too slippery to hold, the nib was beginning to split, and the top looked like it had been chewed on by hungry rats. 

“And what about my clipboard?” said Daeva. 

“Sorry, we’ve only got one,” said Nyx. She winked at Crowley, somewhat unnecessarily. 

The demon smirked. He wiped the pen and the clipboard on the side of his cloak, dislodging the worst of the slime onto the carpet, and began to fill out his form, as Daeva resumed her tirade against Nyx and Bob. 

But no sooner than he’d put pen to paper did Crowley feel a burning in his chest again. He coughed, gritted his teeth, and sat himself down in one of the molded plastic chairs. The seat was far too low and narrow for Crowley, but it was better than nothing. Who knew when the next post-discorporation phantom cramp would strike? The demon crossed an ankle over his knee, tipped his chair onto its two back legs, and squinted at the papers again. 

The first field in the form was entitled _Name_. That was easy. Crowley drew a wobbly sigil in the blank space, and was only moderately surprised when Aziraphale’s pen didn’t burst into indignant blue flames. 

“Look at him, he must have dozens of clipboards in there,” shouted Daeva. 

“Are you calling Bob fat?” said Nyx menacingly. 

“So what if I am?” bristled Daeva. 

“Then you can enjoy filling out your requisite forms without a clipboard,” said Nyx. “Or a pen. You might be able to scavenge one out from the bin room. I’d tell you to watch out for the flesh-eating scarabs, but...” 

Pain shot through Crowley’s chest again, more intensely than the first time. He uncrossed his legs and hunched over in the chair, elbows on his knees. He just had to focus on completing the form before Daeva did. _Method of Discorporation._ That was easy, too. It wasn’t the fall that’d killed him, but the water at the bottom. He scribed _Drowned_ into that space, all the while trying to keep his breathing steady. 

“After that, it’s forms R-159 through R-190. Inclusive,” said Nyx. She gestured at the wall of trays. “They’re the salmon ones,” she added helpfully. 

Daeva gazed up at the wall of trays, all full of papers in shades of red and pink and orange. “They’re all salmon,” she said. 

“No, some of ‘em are rose. Some of ‘em are coral.” 

Pain surged through Crowley’s chest a third time. The demon groaned and doubled over, falling off his tiny chair. The clipboard and Aziraphale’s pen clattered onto the ground beside him. His lungs felt like they were full of molten sulfur. Had he run afoul of the Terms and Conditions of the wager? 

Bob noticed the fallen demon first. “Croooooeeee?” he gurgled uncertainly, ambulating towards the fallen demon on a dozen tiny tentacles. 

Nyx’s gaze turned from Daeva to Bob and down then to Crowley, as he writhed on the ground of the Discorporation Office. “Crowley!” She vaulted over the front desk, shoved Daeva aside with one palm, and bent down to inspect Crowley’s incorporeal form. 

Daeva leapt for the clipboard. But it was Bob who tackled her in a streaming mess of slime and tentacles. “No - geroff me -” she said, before her protests were muffled behind Bob’s gelatinous mass. 

Crowley was only vaguely aware as Nyx turned him onto his side. “C’mon, Crowley, talk through this. You’ll be alright. Just breathe - oh, shit, you still haven’t got a body. Shit -” 

Tears streamed down his semi-translucent face as he strained to reach the pen and the clipboard. They felt like they were miles away. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think - 

But just as he thought he’d lose his mind from the pain, the floor of the Discorporation Office felt like it’d dropped underneath him, and the pain was replaced by the feeling of falling two hundred miles an hour. 

No - not falling. Rising. Crowley saw the lobby grow smaller and smaller as he was pulled upwards by an unseen force. 

## ∽⧗∼ 

“Wake up - oh, wake up -” 

“Glargh,” said Crowley. His eyes were closed, and he was lying face-up on a hard and knobbly surface. There was a gentle breeze blowing across his face. Everything hurt, especially his chest, which ached as if it’d been smited repeatedly and relentlessly by a maniacal angel who had it out for him. He coughed. That archangel Gabriel had looked particularly smarmy last week - 

“You’re awake - oh, thank goodness -” 

The demon rolled over onto his side. Grass tickled his face as Crowley vomited up what felt like an entire lake’s worth of water. It was easily ten times more painful than when he’d landed in the lobby of Hell. Probably because he had actual lungs again. 

“Deep breaths, my dear, deep breaths.”

Crowley opened his eyes and regretted it immediately. The horizon had gone all bendy. He couldn’t figure out which way was up and which way was down. And worst of all, the angel’s concerned face hovered a few inches away from his own. 

The demon closed his eyes again and patted down his own face. He hoped that it hadn’t reverted to his normal form when he’d been temporarily discorporated, and was pleased to find Ixtaca’s cheekbones as uninspiring as ever. But the effort of raising his arms sent painful jolts through his chest. Crowley turned to the side and coughed again. Less water came out, though each cough still sent another sharp pain through his lungs. He clutched his chest. “An - Aziraphale?” he said. 

A flicker of something crossed the angel’s face, but was gone before Crowley could recognize it in his oxygen-deprived state. “That’s right,” said Aziraphale. “It’s me. Don’t try to get up just yet.” 

“How long was I out?” Crowley said muzzily. 

“Ten, twenty minutes,” said the angel. “Give or take.” 

It was late in the afternoon, now. Crickets chirped noisily in the tall grass on the riverbank. Crowley squinted up the river that wound itself wide and lazy through into the foothills, a far cry from the crashing water and frothing churn he’d drowned in. In the distance on the left, he could see the summer palace, still perched precariously on the edge of the waterfall. “Explains a lot,” he said, and propped himself up on his elbows. “And her -” The demon looked pointedly at Daeva’s corporation, which had washed up to lie face-down by the riverbank some ways downstream. 

“She didn’t make it,” said Aziraphale. Water dripped from his hair and his cream-coloured poncho, which hung crookedly from his shoulders as he knelt beside the demon. 

“Shame,” said Crowley. He tried to draw a deep breath, to steady and ground himself, but yet again a sharp pain shot through his chest. 

“That would have been the chest compressions. Might’ve cracked a rib,” said the angel. “I’m sorry - but if you’ll hold still, I’ll be able to heal it.” 

“I’m fine.” Crowley batted ineffectively at Aziraphale’s hands. “They’re fine.” 

Aziraphale brushed Crowley’s hands aside, and touched the demon’s chest gently. “Of course they are,” he said. The angel’s hands were very warm, and grew warmer still as power gathered upon Crowley’s skin. A gentle stream of magic trickled into the cracks of the demon’s ribs, and he sighed as he felt his bones knit back together. “There we go,” said Aziraphale, and he removed his hands. 

“Well, congratulations. I’m alive,” said Crowley. “All parts accounted for.” The demon drew his damp cloak self-consciously back around him, and made to stand upright. Then he winced immediately, and sat right back down. 

“Not so quickly,” said Aziraphale. 

“Why not? You’ve resuscitated me, my kidnapper is face-down in the river, and -” 

Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s shoulders very firmly, so that the demon had no choice but to meet his eyes. “Don’t - do - that - again,” he said, punctuating each word with a little shake. 

Crowley barely felt the angel’s hands on his shoulders. He was transfixed by Aziraphale’s eyes - not because they were very blue, or because the demon didn’t really have the wherewithal to avert his eyes, but because they were positively blazing with divine Wrath. The Wrath that Daeva hadn’t managed to inspire with all her petty property damage and threats. The Wrath that Crowley needed to win the wager. 

Then, before the demon could react, Aziraphale pulled him into a tight hug. 

Crowley feared that his ribs would crack again, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his arms. Tentatively, he wrapped them around the angel. He smelled like beeswax candles and freshly-cut lavender laid upon a cool stone altar. Like Gothic cathedrals and gold-leafed Bibles on the other side of the ocean. The demon closed his eyes and drew a long, slow, breath, like it was the last one he’d ever take.

A moment later, Aziraphale let go of the demon and straightened back up. “I mean it. Don’t pull that kind of stunt again,” he said sternly. “I didn’t know if you’d gotten swept away, or if she had murdered you, or if - or if you’d been dashed to pieces underwater! It was dangerous, _beyond_ dangerous -”

“I couldn’t let Daeva hurt you,” said Crowley. “Couldn’t let you hurt her, either.” His head was still swimming, though he could not tell whether it was from the unexpected turn of events or drowning-related brain damage. 

“Well, at least she’s beyond that now,” said Aziraphale, dispassionately observing the Underduke’s corpse bobbing face-down in the shallows. “So you can’t stop me from doing this.” The angel stood up and raised his arms to the sky. 

Before Crowley could ask what the Hell that was supposed to mean, he felt power gather around Aziraphale. The air filled with portent, as if a storm were rising on a summer evening. Then a pillar of light shot down from the heavens, striking Daeva’s body square on the chest. A blinding white flash exploded at the point of impact, so brightly that Crowley had to close his eyes, followed by a thunderclap that sent birds fleeing from their arboreal roosts with panicked caws. 

When Crowley opened his eyes, there was only a pile of ashes where Daeva’s body had been, and even they were being swirled away by the river’s sleepy eddies. “Desecration of a body,” noted the demon, standing up gingerly. “That can’t be kosher.” 

“It’s no more than she deserved,” said the angel primly. His moral high ground was eroded somewhat when he added, “You don’t know how _long_ I’ve wanted to do that.” 

“Suppose it’s better that she was already dis- dead,” said Crowley. “Wouldn’t want you to have that kind of stain on your conscience.” 

Aziraphale made a strange, sad noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. “First virtue, and now conscience. Since when have you been worried about my conscience?” 

“Since always? I mean, you’re -” Crowley hesitated, staring at his feet. He’d meant to say, _you’re an angel_. But given his experiences with other angels - even archangels - he suspected that most of them would not have done what Aziraphale had done. Who was that angel, to try and sow hope in the fields the Horsemen had salted? Who was he, to dare rebuild what they had razed? 

The demon lifted his gaze to Aziraphale’s. “You’ve spent your last few weeks trying to cure a plague at home with nothing but roots and leaves and flowers. You wrote a whole book about finding a silver lining in all the misery of the last century. And then you just - just dropped everything to single-handedly rescue me from a mad doomsday cult. Nobody asked you to do it. Nobody even _wanted_ you to do it. But you did it anyways. Because you’re - you’re _you._ ” 

The angel made the strange, sad noise again. “So I am. Though sometimes I wish otherwise,” he said, and he swiped a stray tear from his cheek. “And as for you - you’re Ixtaca the scholar.” 

“That’s right,” said Crowley. His head was starting to clear from his period of oxygen deprivation following his unexpected resuscitation, and he was extremely relieved to have confirmation that he hadn’t blown his cover in the meantime. 

The angel’s face hardened slightly with resolve. “That means I can still do this,” said Aziraphale. He reached across the short space between them and took the demon’s hand in his own. Crowley startled at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. 

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hand, turning it over to study the palm and the knuckles and the fingers, before lacing their fingers together at their sides. Then, still holding the demon’s hand, he stepped dizzyingly close, so that the two of them stood face-to-face. Crowley’s field of vision was filled with the angel’s eyes. He could see them properly, now that they were out of the tunnel. They really were quite a beautiful shade of blue. 

Aziraphale lifted his other hand to Crowley - to _Ixtaca’s_ dull cheekbones, and traced them with his fingertips, as delicately as if he was admiring one of Praxiteles' marble sculptures. The corners of his eyes crinkled ruefully, before he closed his eyes altogether. Crowley felt a pang of disappointment as the blue of the angel’s eyes disappeared from view. 

But only momentarily. Because then Aziraphale slid his hand around to the back of Crowley’s neck, pulled him even closer, and kissed him. 

The angel tasted exactly like Crowley expected him to taste: as rich and as warm as freshly-brewed xocoatl, sweetened with lavender-steeped honey, and sprinkled with the nameless spices that Marco Polo would’ve given his left arm to sell - 

No. Fuck. Crowley was thinking far too hard about this. The demon closed his eyes and wound his free hand around the Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him closer, and banished all thoughts from his mind, so that all he could feel was the the tiny, surprised hitch of Aziraphale’s breath, the warmth of his skin as the angel’s hand tightened on his own, and the softness of his mouth, which was as clever as the rest of him put together, if the angel had learned how to do _that_ \- 

And then, all too soon, Aziraphale broke off the kiss. His breathing had grown ragged, and he pulled away, letting go of the demon’s hand. Crowley reached for him again, but Aziraphale shook his head, looking away. “No. I think twice - twice is quite enough this time.” The angel’s arms were clenched rigidly at his sides, as if he was afraid his own limbs would take on a life of their own and throttle someone. 

“Oh,” said Crowley. 

“It’s nothing to do with you, my dear. It’s just -” 

“Not the right time,” said the demon bitterly. “Or just not your place. Or just plain foolish.” 

“You remember the first two correctly,” said Aziraphale, but there was a faint twist at the corner of his mouth. “But I can’t blame this one on foolishness.” 

“Then what do you blame it on?” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale looked right into the demon’s eyes. “It’d be easier if I could blame this one on Lust. Easier. Simpler. I thought I could, the first time. But - well - I’m afraid I can’t anymore. At least, not the entire plan.” He shrugged, but his gaze remained fixed on Crowley’s, and the demon feared that Aziraphale had seen right through him. 

However, those fears were allayed by the angel’s next question. “Well, scholar, tell me: what’s next for Ixtaca?” asked Aziraphale. 

It sounded like a test. Why did it sound like a test? Crowley considered his options. He could keep the Ixtaca character around. But the scholar had come by too many close calls. The disguise was probably cursed. Best to cut his losses before Aziraphale figured out that there had never been an Ixtaca except the one that Crowley had spun out of thin air. “I think I’ll spend some time with the cultists,” he said. “A revolt’s just the beginning. They’ll need some, ah, management consulting expertise to clean things up afterwards.” 

“So you won’t be coming back to Tenochtitlan with me.” 

“No,” admitted Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s face fell a little bit, but he nodded. “I knew you were just passing through town,” he said. 

“Yeah."

The angel straightened his poncho. “But you know you’re always welcome back at Tenochtitlan. Or to visit me, in Europe.” 

“Visit you in Europe,” repeated Crowley.

“It was wrong of me to try and convince you that everything was turning up roses back home, when it wasn’t,” said Aziraphale. “I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you didn’t want to come. But if you ever feel like you’re up for it - whenever you’re ready -” 

“Yeah. I know,” said Crowley, his throat dry. He already regretted his choice to abandon his disguise as Ixtaca, scholar extraordinaire. But it was too late to back out. “I’ll see you around, then,” he said. 

“I hope so. Will you be able to find your way back to those, ah -” 

“I think they’ll go back to being the Brotherhood of Prophecy, now that they’ve overthrown their boss,” said Crowley. 

“Hmph,” said Aziraphale. “That nomenclature’s a bit exclusionist, isn’t it?” 

“All the more reason they need me up there,” said Crowley. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that they’d need your expertise,” said Aziraphale. “Mexico, Europe - any of those places would be lucky to have you.” The angel smiled faintly. “Farewell, my dear,” he said. “Until the next time our paths cross.” Then he turned away from the demon and began to walk away, blazing a narrow trail through the grass beside the river. 

The Ixtaca disguise suddenly sat very heavily on Crowley’s skin, and his chest ached even though Aziraphale had healed him. He wished he could run after the angel. He wished he could tell him that he’d changed his mind, and that of course he could accompany him back to Tenochtitlan. And most of all, he wished that he could sweep the scholar’s features away and speak with his own words, to look into Aziraphale’s face with his own eyes, and to kiss the angel with his own mouth - 

But he couldn’t, could he? The moment had passed. It wasn’t his place. And it’d be beyond foolish to even try. 

So instead, he watched as Aziraphale grew smaller and smaller in the grasses, until he could no longer even see the top of the angel’s head, and then he stood a while longer. 

Once he was absolutely sure that Aziraphale was gone, he hitched up the hem of his kilt, and waded into the river to inspect what little remained of Daeva’s body. The river’s gentle flow had already swept the ashes away, but a silver of silver still glistened in the muck. Crowley plucked it out of the mud, swishing it in the river to dislodge the dirt. 

It was Daeva’s ring, a twin to Crowley’s own. Three of the gems were grey, and four of them were red. He’d nearly forgotten that he’d won the wager, after all. And his victory tasted - 

Crowley licked his lips, and found that he could still faintly taste honey and lavender upon them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not that I like getting Crowley kidnapped/tortured/discorporated, but somehow it just keeps happening. I'm very sorry about that, and will be strive to ensure that Aziraphale gets his fair share of damsel-in-distress moments in future stories.


	16. Three Loose Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley revisits Tenochtitlan and its environs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry to Monty Python for ripping off their peasant sketch.

It was a long walk back up to the summer palace. There was no trail to follow, and Crowley struggled to push uphill through the tall grass. He didn’t dare use his wings, in case Aziraphale looked back and saw him in the sky. 

Mercifully, the grass thinned as he ascended to the crest of the hill. The demon paused once he rejoined the narrow footpath to the cultists’ hideout, and bleakly realized that Aziraphale was nowhere in sight. But at least now it was safe to clean himself up. Crowley raised his hand to his face and wiped the scholar’s visage off his own. Then he interwove his fingers and stretched his arms over his head, arching his back and sending a wave of darkness sweeping down his cloak. It turned pale cotton black and incinerated the burrs that had collected on the bottom. As a final touch, the demon reached into the recesses of his cloak, pulled out a pair of dark glasses from the recesses of his cloak that had not been there seconds ago, and placed them upon his nose. 

It was nearly dark by the time Crowley stood for a third time in front of the walls of the old summer palace. The entrance was now barred by a crude but sturdy door that looked as if it had been assembled from parts of the demon’s cage. The male and female cultists flanked the entrance on the inside. Instead of farmers’ garb, they wore the padded cloth armour of Daeva’s goons, though it hung a tad too loosely on their frames. The obsidian-edged clubs, however, fit perfectly in their hands. Both cultists sported a fresh coat of dirt and grime on their skin. 

“Halt,” barked out the woman. “This is private property.” 

“Come on, guys, you know me,” said Crowley, and he waved cheerily through the bars of the door. He really was looking forward to helping the cultists rebuild, starting with writing a proper manifesto - 

The man snorted. “Yeah, you’re that rubbish management consultant who tried to steal our herbs.” 

“I’m also your god,” said Crowley. In an eyeblink, his head and neck swelled up until it resembled that of a monstrous snake, all polished scales and dripping fangs. He hissed mightily, spraying spittle through the wooden bars of the door for good measure, before reverting self-congratulatorily back to his previous form.

But instead of hurried apologies and impromptu prayers, he was treated to a pair of synchronized eye-rolls. “Just like that last schmuck,” said the woman. “Claimed to be Quetzalcoatl, promised the end of the world, turned into a snake a few times, then disappeared.”

“But you got what was promised, didn’t you?” said Crowley, beginning to feel peevish. “You overthrew a regime. You expelled an Underduke of Hell from your home. And now, you’ve got a bright new future ahead of you! You could get the - the hazard pay and sick days and vacations you’ve always wanted! Isn’t this the new age you’ve always been promised?” 

“False alarm,” said the woman. “How could that be the end of the age? I didn’t see no rains of blood and fire, earthquakes that knocked the sun out of the sky, or - or - 

“An army of darkness,” added the man helpfully. 

“Exactly,” said the woman. “You’d think that the sixth age would have more _oomph_ to it. But I feel just the same as I did before.”

Crowley tried to rally. “I could still help, though. Maybe write a constitution or a four-step plan, organize some elections - or come on, at least a manifesto!” 

“We don’t need none of your neocolonial propaganda around here,” said the woman. “And besides, we’re already done.” 

“You have a manifesto already?” said Crowley. “You can’t even write -” 

“We’ve rejected the imperialist dogma perpetuating the economic differences in society in favour of reincorporating as an autonomous collective. All future motions will be ratified at a weekly meeting by a two-thirds majority,” the woman recited.

“Also, from today henceforth we shall be known as the People’s Society for Self-Preservation,” said the man. “It’s gender neutral!” 

“And as you might’ve noticed from the name, it’s the People’s Society for Self-Preservation. Not the People’s Republic for the Preservation With Help of Whomever Happens to Wander Through the Garden Gate.” The woman looked pointedly at the demon. “So take your technocratic elitism and go pound sand.” 

“You can’t be serious!” said Crowley. 

The man raised his club threateningly. “If you stick around, we’re gonna show you the violence inherent in the old system.” 

The demon’s last vestiges of enthusiasm evaporated as he realized he was getting expelled from yet _another_ garden. “Yeah, well, enjoy your new age,” he muttered.

He turned away and stalked off into the night. But before he was out of sight of the compound, he felt a little stab of vindictiveness. Did the cultists - the _People’s Society_ \- want to test their mettle against the endtimes, against the rains of fire and armies of darkness that the Horsemen would inevitably bring? Well. Crowley’d make sure they never got their wish. 

The demon cackled to himself, and then clenched his fist tightly, bringing up the brightly-pulsing power that had been locked away by the wager for weeks. Then, he opened his hand and unfurled a small red fog-cloud of magic towards the cultists’ compound. It grew larger and larger as it drifted against the wind. It sank into the garden walls with greedy tendrils and climbed up the crumbling summer palace, until the entire compound was enveloped in a thousand vines of dull red light. The vines turned glassy, and then shattered into a thousand sparks, leaving nothing behind but a promise. 

But what a promise it was. The cultists would go on to tend to their mushroom caves and chinampas, dig artesian wells deep in the earth, and fortify the garden walls to their hearts’ content, all while waiting for the end times to come upon them. And therein lay Crowley’s promise, because the Horsemens' trials never would come for them. And the cultists would never get the chance to prove that the rest of Mexico should’ve bunkered down in an underground cave and prepared for the worst, because the cultists and the prophecy had been right all along - 

At least, not until the Big One. But then again, nobody was going to survive that one. 

Crowley smirked at the cultists’ compound and raised his hand in a mocking salute. Nobody saw, of course. But that was fine by him. 

## ∽⧖∼ 

  
  


There was a spring in the demon’s step as he strolled into the Tenochtitlan market, and it wasn’t just because he’d just won a wager and ousted a genocidal Underduke from her seat of power. Maybe the cultists hadn’t noticed anything different about their crumbling summer palace, but Crowley was seeing the city with brand new eyes. The wind felt fresher, the sun seemed brighter, and the birdsong sounded just a touch more virtuosic. It felt as if a dark mist had been lifted from the city. 

The butchers in the Tenochtitlan market were still bleary-eyed and belligerent in the late morning, but Crowley eventually managed to procure two jugs of fresh rabbit’s blood. Then he headed towards the palace gardens. 

On the way, he passed by Tozi’s stage. Crowley spotted a dozen new members in the troupe as they ran through a last-minute rehearsal. The new members were all pulled from the auditioners from when he’d been casting a love interest for Aziraphale. And they seemed to have finally mastered Tozi’s demanding choreography.

The actress herself was sitting on a stump beside the stage. A carved wooden snake mask was perched on top of her head, nestled in her curls as she frantically sewed overlapping shells and ovals of coloured fabric onto the back of a burlap cape with wide, sloppy stitches. Her mouth was tightly pursed in concentration. 

She looked up from her work at the demon’s approach, and her mouth split into a wide grin. “Crowley,” she called, and swept the unfinished cape around her shoulders to jog towards the demon. 

Crowley made to wave back, but could only shrug, as his arms were full. 

The actress stopped a few feet short of the demon to look him up and down, hands on her hips. “So, how’s that experimental small-scale improv show go?” she asked. Her tone was casual, but she was practically bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. 

“Ah, it went a bit off-script. But it worked out in the end. More or less,” said Crowley.

Tozi pumped a fist into the air. “Yes! I knew you had it in you!” She glanced around the marketplace furtively. “Some schlub named Ixtaca was hanging around the market,” she whispered. “Clearly a false name. Probably wasn’t a scholar, either. But he had eyes on _your_ scholar.” 

“Aziraphale’s not _my_ scholar,” protested Crowley. 

“Shut up, Crowley,” said Tozi. “Anyways, the Ixtaca fellow paid us a deposit for another one of ‘em improv jobs, and then ditched. He wasn’t exactly flush with cacao seeds, but we could’ve used the money for our next production.” 

“Sorry to hear that.” 

“Well, his no-show meant we had more time for rehearsals,” said Tozi. “I just hope that the musical edition of _Quetzalcoatl and the End of the World_ will be popular enough to pay the bills.” She held a hand to her brow and tilted her face dramatically to the sky. “I’ll _die_ if I have to work another kid’s birthday party.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Crowley. He set down his jugs on the ground and folded his cloak around himself. One hand twisted under the dark fabric, gathering people from around the market to assemble at Tozi’s makeshift stage, like a spider plucking at the strands of its web. 

“So, what brings you here today?” said the actress, recovering from her impromptu half-swoon. “Are you gonna stick around for the show? Or will you be paying a visit to the scholar with that wine?” She nudged Crowley’s two pitchers with her foot with the last suggestion and waggled her eyebrows.

Crowley didn’t rise to the goad. “This isn’t wine, and it’s not for Aziraphale. It’s for an errand at the palace.” 

Tozi’s smile faded slightly. “Better get to it, then,” she advised. “He told me that he was leaving town this afternoon.” 

“He told _you_?” 

“The man’s a true patron of the arts,” she said with faux-haughtiness. 

“Figures,” said Crowley. “But don’t worry. I’ll be paying him a visit soon.” 

“Good.” Tozi’s smile had returned in full force. “I bet he’s expecting you.” 

“I seriously doubt that,” said Crowley. But before Tozi could argue that point too, he gestured to the crowd that was beginning to gather around her stage, drawn like flies to honey by the demon’s machinations. “Looks like _they’re_ expecting you.” 

“So they are.” The actress rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “This is gonna be a good one. I can feel it.” 

“Well, here’s hoping you get more than _one_ good crowd out of _Quetzalcoatl,_ ” said Crowley, still doing something complicated and occultish with his free hand beneath the folds of his cloak. 

“Yeah, of course,” said Tozi. “But not too many, y’know? I’ve already got an idea for something else in the works.” 

“Dare I ask what?” said Crowley. “ _The Founding of Tenochtitlan_ reworked as modern-day political commentary, or maybe an interpretative dance based on _The Sacrifice of Nanahuatl_?” 

“Nah. Next one is going to be a love story.” 

“A love story?” The demon raised an eyebrow. “Good luck with that. Audiences around here don’t want romance. They want action. Blood. Tragedy! Which are all things that _Quetzalcoatl_ provides, incidentally.”

“Oh, mayhem, murder, and melodrama never gets old,” said the actress airily. “But I think the audience deserves a bit of romance now and then. Especially nowadays.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Tozi began slowly. “But my neighbour’s kids actually slept through the night. I woke up without a crick in my neck, and with more ideas than I had all of last year. And my dance line is _finally_ landing their choreography.” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, as if savouring the taste of the air. “Things just feel different. Like the rains had come down and washed away all the old dust. Like this market and this stage were all new again. Like - like Quetzalcoatl himself brought about a new age! But without the rains of blood and armies of darkness and stuff.” 

“Or maybe it’s just a nice day.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” said Tozi, but her smile was undimmed. She slapped the demon on the back. “Gotta get back to work, but good luck with your _errands_.” 

“I don’t need luck,” protested Crowley. 

“Oh, from what I’ve seen, you’re gonna need all the luck you can get,” said Tozi, and she winked at the demon before flipping her carved snake mask onto her face. Then she spun around on her heel with a swirl of her cape to rejoin her troupe at the stage. 

Tozi was no seamstress. The cloth and shell scales on the cape were staggered in uneven rows, and the bottom was mightily frayed. But when the wind stretched the cape out from her shoulders and the sun caught on the shiniest shell fragments, Crowley could nearly imagine that she was donning a snakeskin. 

## ∽⧗∼ 

Crowley lugged his two jugs up the hill to the royal palace, one in each hand. 

“Who goes th-” began one of the guards at the gate. 

The demon both of his jugs down, and snapped his fingers. “Chop chop,” he said.

Both guards saluted blearily. “Of course, your majesty,” one said. He and his comrade set down their obsidian-edged clubs to pick up Crowley’s jugs of blood. 

The demon led his impromptu porters into the garden, directed them to set down the two pitchers by a tamarisk tree, and dismissed them. It seemed unnaturally still in the wee hours of the morning. But if he closed his eyes, he could still hear the chirp of crickets in the grass, the early morning warblers, the rustle of voles running through the grass, the gentle splashing of fish in the ponds. Even the pond that led straight to Hell had ripples on the surface as a warm breeze stirred it. 

Crowley picked up his two jugs and stepped into the pool, not bothering to hike his cloak up. He hesitated, nearly expecting the tiled bottom of the pool to grab his ankles and drag him down beneath the surface. But it didn’t, so he took another step forward. And then another, and another, until the ground abruptly vanished from under his feet. 

The demon tread water in the middle of the pool, a jug still in each arm. He tilted his face up to the starry sky. Then, he took a deep breath, and dove beneath the surface.

Deeper and deeper he swam, until the water turned from black to green. He burst through the bottom of the pool, into the back vestibule of Hell. He vaporized the water that clung to his clothes with a thought, and left for the Recorporation Office, leaving only a puddle behind him. 

The hallway was quiet but for the clank of neglected pipes and the hiss of steam as he approached the Recorporation Office. Conspicuously missing from the soundscape was Daeva’s protests about her paperwork. Crowley continued down the hallway with trepidation, until he reached a peeling green door with a tarnished brass knob. He opened the door without knocking, and breezed in. 

Nyx’s hooves were propped up on the front desk, as she concentrated on doing the cryptic crossword puzzle of the _Infernal Post_. Bob could be seen in the teetering valley of filing cabinets behind her, industriously re-alphabetizing files with his many tentacles. And Daeva was sitting in one of the molded plastic waiting chairs lined up on the right side of the room. In one hand was a clipboard straining to restrain a thick stack of orange papers, and in the other was a ballpoint pen, only slightly chewed-upon and with at least half the ink remaining. 

But she was making no move to fill out the form. Her feathers were greasy, and her eyes were dull, staring straight ahead at the mass of paper trays mounted on the opposite wall. 

Crowley gave the discorporated Underduke a wide berth as he approached the front desk. “Hi,” he said. 

Nyx’s face lit up when she saw him. “Wotcher, Crowley. Did you bring those for me?” she said, nodding at the jugs under his arms. “Crosswording is thirsty work, and I’d _love_ to win the raffle prize this week.” She tilted her face to the ceiling, as if trying to recall something on the tip of her tongue. “Oh! And congratulations on winning that bet.” 

“You heard?” Crowley passed the jugs to Nyx, who broke the seal on one and lobbed the other at Bob. It hit the amorphous demon square in the belly and sank into his body, suspended in translucent green cytoplasm. Crowley watched in morbid fascination as the clay pot began to disintegrate within Bob’s body, sending trails of tiny bubbles streaming through his cytoplasm.

“Oh, yeah,” said Nyx. “Made the local paper.” She ushered Crowley over to her side of the desk and began rifling through the newspaper. 

The demon glimpsed an expletive-laden letter from the editor bemoaning their contributors’ lack of punctuality, a photo of Beelzebub cutting the ribbon on a newly-excavated pit of torment, and a disconcertingly titillating page three feature of Hastur, before deciding that it might be best to look somewhere else. He cast his gaze around the office - first at Bob, who was still rapidly but gruesomely assimilating his sanguineous beverage, and then back at the looming, vertiginous chasm of filing cabinets behind Nyx, and then to Daeva. The Underduke didn’t meet Crowley’s gaze. In fact, she hadn’t acknowledged his presence at all. Her eyes were still fixed, unseeing, on the documents affixed on her clipboard. She could’ve been a statue, if it weren’t for the slow, shallow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and the faint aura of blood and ashes that seeped into the carpet and the wall and the chairs around her, staining them just a tinge greyer than they’d been before. 

“Here!” said Nyx at last, and she jabbed a finger onto a small headline in the bottom-left corner of page twelve. Underneath a horoscope predicting imminent gastrointestinal distress for all twelve astrological signs was a headline: “Local Demon Wins Impossible Bet.” 

“Wowza.” said Crowley. 

“I’m gonna add it to my scrapbook,” said Nyx. She took her newspaper back and tipped the jug of rabbit’s blood to her lips. “So - are you here to celebrate, or to gloat?” 

“Just came to borrow a pen,” he said, and plucked Aziraphale’s favourite reed pen out of the mug of pens on Nyx’s desk. The mug read _Lie, Laugh, Lurk_ in glittery fuchsia cursive.

“Fat chance I’ll ever see that again.” Nyx held a hand over to Bob, who pulled a pair of scissors out from his gelatinous corpus with a narrow tentacle and passed it to her. The scissors gleamed with slime as Nyx began to clip out the news article. 

“I’ll get you another one.”

“No need,” said Nyx. “You can have all the pens you want for discorporating _her_.” She gestured with the scissors at Daeva, who was still sitting motionless in her plastic chair. “I think she really livens the place up. And to think we were thinking of buying a coat-rack!” 

Bob gurgled an assent, a vicious light in his many eyes.

“You gonna keep her here forever?” said Crowley. 

Nyx spat a crimson gobbet onto the dark, mottled carpet. “After what she did to Bob? She’ll be here for as long as we can draw out the recorporation process, even if she asks nicely and kisses my cloven hooves. It’ll take months. Years, maybe.” She lowered her voice. “But we can’t keep her down here forever. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. What happens when she actually completes her paperwork? We can’t keep her down here forever. Especially if Dagon audits the department again -” 

“I’m not worried about Daeva,” said Crowley. “She can’t go back to Earth anyways.”

He heard a creaking noise like a wind blowing through a forest of dead trees, and it was a moment before he realized that Daeva had straightened up in her chair and begun to speak. “You’re right, Crowley. I can’t go back to Earth. But the Horsemen are still there, waiting for the end,” she whispered. “And when that day of reckoning comes - they’ll come for all of your cities, the same way they came for mine. And you won’t be able to hide. You won’t be able to escape. All you can do is stand and watch as everything burns down around you, and the wind blows their ashes away, and all that is left is the ghost of a memory.” 

“You’re _just_ as I remembered you,” said Crowley. He turned away from the Underduke and back to Nyx. “Go ahead and let her out, if she ever finishes filling out her paperwork. Then she can get herself reassigned to the Accounting Department. Or maybe Mars, if we’re extra lucky.” 

Nyx exhaled in relief. “That’s a load off my mind.” Then to Daeva, she said, “Don’t get excited, though. It’ll still be _ages_ before you get through all the forms properly. Especially since it’s your first time here and all.” 

Daeva wasn’t even looking at Nyx. Her eyes were still fixed on Crowley, shadowed beneath her brows. “I won’t be thanking you. Doesn’t matter to me if I spend eternity here, or on the raggedy edge of the galaxy.” She smiled humourlessly. “If you actually wanted to do me a favour - no, if you wanted to do _everyone_ a favour - you should have let the angel use his Holy Water on me.”

Nyx stifled a gasp when Daeva mentioned Holy Water, and nearly dropped her newspaper. Bob squeaked wetly and oozed backwards to cower behind Nyx’s desk. Crowley ignored them both. “If I wanted to do you a favour, I’d have keeled over after the third beacon was lit. “But unlike you, my sin’s not Sloth.” 

“My sin’s not Sloth,” said Daeva. Her voice was low but uncertain. 

“Well, I’m not sure what else I can chalk this stint in the Discorporation Office up to,” pointed out Crowley. “‘Cause it’s sure as Hell not any of the other six. Suppose Sloth suits you, though.” A sardonic smile pulled at the edge of his lips. “An associate of mine said that Pride was the greatest sin, but Sloth was the saddest. Wasn’t sure what he meant by that at the time, but - ah - I think I get it, looking at you. You have no body. No purpose. Nothing to live for. The first one can be fixed, but the others -” He shrugged. 

Daeva laughed, harsh and bitter as a winter famine. “What of it? That hasn’t stopped me before,” she said. “Your beloved cities will not soon forget the tender mercies I administered to them last century. And neither will you, Crowley. Do you remember the bone-thin serfs begging in the streets, and the arrow-strewn battlefields stained crimson, and the bloated dead piled up in the corpse-pits?” 

“I don’t look back when I'd rather look forwards,” said Crowley glibly. “And at this point, neither should you. Nothing stopping you from finding something else to do. You could go and help Melkor edit his blasted novel. Or maybe visit the Andromeda galaxy. It’s got a lot of nice, uninhabited stars that you can blow up, and the change of scenery’ll do you some good.”

“Daeva’s been the way she is for as long as I can remember. You can’t _fix_ someone like that,” Nyx interrupted. She stood up and slammed her newspaper down, with such force that her curly hair bounced and the contents of the _Lie, Laugh, Lurk_ mug went spilling across her desk. “A change of scenery is _not_ going to do her any good!” 

“A change of scenery worked wonders for me,” said Crowley. 

“Oh, are you a few potatoes short of a harvest too?” snapped Nyx. “You and Daeva are nothing alike. She’s a -” 

“A genocidal maniac, I’m aware,” said Crowley mildly. “But a change of scenery did help me after she lit the third beacon.” 

“You lit the third beacon, not I,” protested Daeva. 

“You were going to. You might’ve well have. I’ll give you the point. Congratulations.” Crowley exhaled heavily, as if that admission lifted the blame for Pestilence from his own shoulders - and from Aziraphale’s shoulders - and put them squarely on Daeva’s. “And of course, you could always go ahead and die. Maybe you’ll find some stray angels on Mars or orbiting Alpha Centauri to piss off. I’m sure they’d be more than happy to dig up some water and bless it for you.” 

“That’s what you’d want, isn’t it?” whispered Daeva. The manic light had returned to her eyes. “You want me to die for what I’ve done. You want me to suffer, as I’ve made you suffer. So do it. Do it!” 

Crowley bent down, so that he and the Underduke were face to face. “Were I a better demon, I’d already have reassigned you to scrub the pits of torments every Saturday with a toothbrush,” he said. “Were I a lesser one - well, I guess I’d have lost our wager. But I’m neither. I’m just me. And in the end, I  _ did _ win the wager. Europe is mine. You'll never step foot on Earth again.” He gave Daeva a smile that was all teeth. “Beyond that, I just don’t give a shit what happens to you.” 

He didn’t wait for Daeva to reply before straightening up. “Good luck with the crossword,” he said to Nyx. 

Nyx raised her jug of blood to Crowley as a toast. “Don’t come back too soon,” she said. 

Bob, whose own jug had been reduced to nothing more than an amorphous crimson blob within his corpus, picked up Nyx’s fallen mug with a delicate tentacle and raised that instead. “Leeeerkweeese,” he gurgled. 

Crowley smiled at them both, wrapped his cloak around him, and swept out of the Recorporation Office. Aziraphale’s pen was still tightly gripped in his hand. 

After all, it was high time to pay the angel a visit. 


	17. Moving Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale packs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the number of chapters again. This is not the last chapter. The next chapter is the last chapter. Then there will be some author's notes.

The communal courtyard in front of Aziraphale’s house epitomized lazy afternoon bliss. Fragrant columns of steam rose up from bean casseroles and maize porridges that cooked long and slow over glowing coals. Women clustered in the shade of their neighbours’ verandahs to seek respite from the afternoon heat and share the gossip of the day. Even the children had gotten a break from their daily lessons, and climbed up onto the peaked thatched roofs of their parents’ houses to bask in the sun. 

Crowley might’ve elected to join them on any other day, but he had one more errand to run in Tenochtitlan, and there was no putting it off any longer. He approached the angel’s doorstep with trepidation. To his surprise, the door was already ajar. The demon pushed it open, and peeped inside. 

The single room looked like it had recently hosted a child’s birthday party. Scrolls and books were no longer neatly piled on the angel’s low desk, but scattered across the premises - some in wooden crates, some in leather bags, and some in the angel’s arms as he bussed them frantically from one side of the room to the other. The fire in the hearth had gone out some time ago, taking with it the warm glow that had rendered a humble hut homely. Now, the shadows felt cool instead of cozy. The Aztec prophecy stone had been banished from its place of pride in the centre of the room to lean askew on the far wall. Its inexplicable replacement in the front of the unlit fireplace was a single potted bush. 

Crowley scarcely had time to wonder why Aziraphale had a bit of shrubbery in the middle of his house, when it burst abruptly into flames. The demon hissed through his teeth and yanked his head out of the house to press himself flat against the wall beside the door outside. 

Archangel Gabriel’s voice began to emanate from the burning bush. “Nearly packed up, then?” he boomed. 

Aziraphale paused his mad dash through the house with a pile of scrolls heaped high in his arms. “Just about,” he said. There was a touch of irritation in his voice, as if this was not the first time that the archangel had come calling that day. 

“Well, time’s a-ticking,” said Gabriel. “You need to get back to Italy to deal with the Pope situation, _stat_. Michael’s not gonna hold Sandalphon back if he starts turning all the Frenchmen into pillars of salt. Savvy?” 

Aziraphale repressed a shudder. “Not to worry,” he assured the archangel. “I’m nearly done.” 

The burning bush swiveled around in its pot, taking in Aziraphale’s half-packed belongings. “You’d finish more quickly if you didn’t take this with you. Just nip on over Upstairs, and you’ll be back to Rome in a jiffy.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” said Aziraphale. “It’d be irresponsible to leave all of this with the locals... who knows what they’d get up to with this sort of knowledge? Remember Eve?” 

“Then burn it,” said Gabriel. 

It was a testament to Crowley’s self-control that he didn’t go and stamp the bush out right then and there. 

Aziraphale drew in a steadying breath. “I would, but, you know - this is all for a report I’m writing.” 

“I don’t remember assigning you a report,” said Gabriel. 

“It’s a personal project,” said Aziraphale. “About, ah, the glory of the Plan and the, er, the confluence of power in the western hemisphere -” 

The burning bush faked an enormous yawn. “Okay, okay, I get the point - but don’t drag your feet. Avignon is _this_ close to getting hit by an asteroid.” And before Aziraphale could respond, the bush extinguished itself in a mushroom cloud. Smoke billowed thickly across the angel’s ceiling, and trickled out the door. 

It tickled Crowley’s throat. He coughed. 

Aziraphale whipped his head around to see the demon standing just outside the doorway. “Crowley!” he said. The scrolls in his arms fell forgotten to the ground as he rushed up to the demon, arms slightly outstretched as if he meant to wrap them around Crowley. But he stopped short of the demon, and dropped them to his sides awkwardly. 

Crowley leaned casually against the doorframe to steady the trembling of his legs. Only yesterday, Aziraphale had resuscitated him on the riverbank. Yesterday, he’d kissed the angel in the darkness of the mountain, and then again underneath a golden Mexican sky. And yesterday, he’d let Aziraphale walk away from him into an endless sea of grass. But today was a new day, so Crowley shoved all his yesterdays into a box in the furthest corner of his mind. The demon ignored the way that the box that bulged and buckled and threatened to spill all his other yesterdays across the present - he’d let his subconscious deal with it tomorrow. Then he closed the box, and faced the angel. 

“Hi,” he said.

Aziraphale’s hands opened and closed at his sides, until he elected to begin wringing them together instead. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” 

“Just wanted to return your pen,” said Crowley. He pulled the pen out from where he’d tucked it in the belt of his kilt, twirled it expertly across his fingers, and then presented it to the angel, palm-up. The nib had been painstakingly reshaped, and the barrel polished to remove all traces of slime. 

“My pen?” said Aziraphale. “Oh. Yes. My favourite pen. I’d wondered where that’d gone -” He spared the reed pen a single glance, before returning his eyes to the demon’s face. “Thank you,” he said. “Dare I ask where it was?” 

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” said Crowley. 

“That’s an odd way to say, _in my pocket_ _this entire time_ ,” said Aziraphale. He took the pen and placed it carefully into his belt pouch. “I’d invite you in for some tea, but - ah - I’m not sure where I’ve put the kettle -” 

“Wasn’t thirsty anyways.”

“- and Gabriel will have my hide if I’m not back in Rome in two weeks, so I need to finish packing -” Aziraphale ushered the demon inside the hut, where he resumed distributing his belongings between a mismatched series of wooden boxes, metal trunks, and leather sacks. 

“So you’ve been recalled already,” said Crowley. 

The angel’s face fell a tiny fraction, but he twitched his lips up in an approximation of a smile. “I’m afraid so,” said Aziraphale. He opened up a handsomely riveted trunk and rummaged through the papers and bric-a-brac within. Crowley could barely see the angel behind the open lid of the trunk “But - I’ve left you something for your holiday. Just a bit of light reading. Remember when you told me about the lighthouse in Messina?”

“Oh,” said Crowley. “The third beacon.” 

Aziraphale’s face briefly emerged above the lid of the trunk, bright and pale in the shadows. “I’m very sorry I didn’t tell you that it was I that lit it.” 

“Well, it isn’t exactly the thing that comes up in casual dinner conversation.” 

“It was careless of me not to see the obvious. When was the last time you not just refused, but _ignored_ an invitation to lunch?”

“Uh,” said the demon. “Maybe back in Egypt -” 

“Exactly,” said Aziraphale sharply. “I should have noticed. I should have _known_ . Especially after you just up and left the continent altogether a few years later. Even the village idiot could have put the pieces together and concluded that _something_ was wrong.” 

“You were busy too,” Crowley pointed out. “Cleaning up after the Horsemen.” 

“That’s no excuse, but I suppose what’s done is done.” Aziraphale pulled a massive, leather-bound tome out of the trunk and offered it to the demon with both hands. “Incidentally, I’ve been doing some research.” 

Dread began to wind itself around Crowley’s insides. He held up his hands to ward off the angel’s gift. “Oh, no, you shouldn’t have -” 

Aziraphale was speaking very quickly now, brushing the demon’s interruptions off without acknowledgement. “I’m sure you - your scholar’s already related the gist of the research for you -”

“You really, really shouldn’t have -” 

“- but I wrote it down for your personal reference.” He pushed the book into Crowley’s hands and let go before the demon could protest any further.

Crowley staggered slightly under the weight. “I couldn’t possibly take this -” 

Aziraphale ignored him. “It’s a record of every time a Horsemen has been sighted on Earth, cross-referenced with every beacon appearance recorded in the Celestial Library, regardless of whether or not the beacon was actually lit. I’ve conducted a _post-ex_ analysis on the anthropological conditions following each incident. Now, I’ve tried to keep things concise -” 

“Unlikely,” interjected Crowley. Distantly, he wondered whether or not the angel was even bothering to breathe between sentences. 

“- but the conclusions are irrefutable. The beacons appear prior to the arrival of the Horsemen. It doesn’t matter whether or not they’re lit - once they appear, the Horsemen’s arrival is inevitable. But - as you’ll note on page sixty-two -” 

Crowley flipped dutifully to page sixty-two, where he was confronted with a page of dense, tightly written prose, a third of which seemed to constitute the footnotes. 

“- the Horsemen don’t have any long-term impacts on any of the political, economic, or social development in any given region. There might be a short-term, regional dip in population growth or displacement or local groups, but - all in all - the humans are a fairly resilient bunch. Not much slows them down. They’ll bounce back, sooner or later.” Aziraphale laughed nervously. “Until the end times, anyway.” 

“Huh,” said Crowley. He closed the book with a _thud_ , and opened his mouth to make another snide comment about the angel’s efforts, but closed it when he saw Aziraphale’s gaze upon him, clear and earnest and blue even in the darkness of the hut. He could’ve lost a few seconds, a minute, an entire year in those eyes. “Thank you,” Crowley managed, dropping his eyes back to the book. Embossed on the cover was the title: _Blight, Bloodbath, Buboes, and Beacons: What Befell the Fourteenth Century, and Why it Wasn’t Any One Person's Fault._

“It was the least I could do,” said Aziraphale softly. “Think of it as a going-away present, if you want.” Then the angel straightened up, coughed, and continued speaking. “In any case, you’ll be glad to hear that Upstairs has dropped the plan to call the Horsemen over the ocean. Death and his ilk might find their own way over when the humans figure out transatlantic navigation in the next few centuries. But there’s no need for Upstairs to wipe Tenochtitlan from the map anytime soon, now that Daeva’s been ousted.” He cocked his head at the demon. “Congratulations, by the way, on winning the wager.” 

Crowley looked up sharply from the book. “Oh, you heard about that?”

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale. He selected a book from the top of a teetering pile and dropped it into one of the wooden crates with unnecessary force. “After all, I arranged the whole thing.” 

Crowley’s jaw dropped. The demon felt as if he’d been hit on the head by one of the cultists’ obsidian-edged cudgels, and it was only by force of habit that he did not drop Aziraphale’s gift onto the packed-dirt floor of the hut. “What - how - when -” he managed to stammer, until his voice failed him entirely. 

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley tried again. All manner of suitable phrases rose to mind to war amongst themselves including _“What the_ fuck _did you do?”_ and _“How the hell did you find out?”_ and, most disturbingly, _“You magnificent bastard.”_ Unfortunately, all that came out was, “You - you - you -” so he abandoned his attempts at speech and strode towards Aziraphale, nearly backing the angel into a wonky wall-mounted shelf, book gripped in both hands like a battering ram. 

“Yes, me,” said the angel, who at least had the decency to wear a look of mild shame rather than smugness upon his face. He edged out from around Crowley’s glare, but found neither shelter nor solace amongst the bare walls of the hut.

“How would you even know what the wager was about? You weren’t even _there_ ,” accused Crowley. “And I took out that part out of the terms and conditions before you reviewed it -” 

“Perhaps _arranged_ is too strong a word,” Aziraphale amended. “ _Nudged_ may be more accurate.” He’d circled nearly all the way around the demon, so that his back was to the hut door, and then began to inch backwards.

“Nudged?” said Crowley, his eyebrows rising higher and higher by the second. 

“Nudged indirectly. Very indirectly,” said Aziraphale hastily. The angel’s face was beginning to redden, and he fanned himself with the sleeve of his poncho. “Oh, my. Is it a bit warm in here?” 

“Indirectly!” 

“Look, you have to see it from my point of view,” said Aziraphale, even as he began backing away from the demon. “I knew there was an Underduke of Hell in Tenochtitlan. I knew that she was at least partially responsible for the decadence and human sacrifice and what-have-you in the region. I knew that if she stuck around for too long, Upstairs would send the Horsemen across the sea to cleanse the city. I couldn’t face her head-to-head, of course, so -” 

Crowley matched the angel step-for-step as he backed towards the exit. “So you thought it was best to pit _me_ against her? She was at least a hundred times more powerful than I -” 

“Well, I assumed that’s why you always avoided her, instead of lurking and plotting together.” Aziraphale had cleared the doorframe, and now stood squarely outside his hut. “So when your paths finally crossed at the royal palace, I thought I had to do _something_ before she disemboweled you!” 

“You didn’t do anything,” Crowley pointed out. “Those blessed archangels scared her off.” The demon blinked in the afternoon sunlight as he, too, emerged outside the house. “You get back here, you -” He tucked the enormous book underneath his left arm so he could grab the angel’s poncho with his right hand, but caught nothing but air.

“Just popping out for a bit of sunshine,” called Aziraphale, nimbly darting out of sight around the corner of the hut. 

“Blasted slippery bastard,” growled Crowley under his breath. He set the book on top of a pile of firewood underneath the verandah and stalked around to the back of the house, just in time to see Aziraphale haul himself up a rope ladder and onto the peaked thatch roof. The demon reached for the ladder, but it jerked merrily out of his reach. 

“And why do you think Gabriel and Michael showed up right at that moment?” said the angel conversationally, as if he wasn’t tying the rope ladder into a neat bundle beside him. 

“By accident! You were giving them the grand tour.” Crowley hissed in frustration, and wondered if he should just open up his wings and fly up there. But Aziraphale had gotten up there without _his_ wings. Cheating bastard. Ladders were overrated anyways. The demon pressed himself up to the wall of the hut and started searching for a footing in the adobe brickwork. 

“Give me a bit more credit, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, who seemed content to sit cross-legged on the peak of the thatch roof and watch Crowley struggle with the wall. “The archangels dropped in for a surprise visit. I was happy giving _you_ a wide berth, while giving _them_ a tour of the fishing boats and the chinampas, until both you and Daeva tripped my wards in the palace. Nearly tore my poncho rushing them across the city.” 

Crowley found a footing. He reached up and grabbed the roof joists to haul himself upwards, feet scrambling against the rough wall. “Right. And after that, at the market -” 

“I followed you at a distance while giving Gabriel and Michael a tour of the main causeway,” said Aziraphale. “Once Daeva started threatening you - why do you think I complimented your wiliness in her presence?”

Crowley jammed his foot into a crevice between the bricks and used it to push himself even higher up the wall. “Because I _am_ wily -” 

Now it was the angel’s turn to look peevish. “Yes, but also so that you’d have an excuse to challenge Daeva to a contest of wits.” 

“Which I won,” added Crowley. “You couldn’t have known what the terms of our wager were, though.” He reached up to grab a handful of thatch roofing and pulled himself higher, so that he could _finally_ look Aziraphale in the eye. A few more feet and he’d be able to properly throttle the angel - 

“Correct. I didn’t know.” said Aziraphale, but his eyes narrowed. “At least, not until you made me three social calls on three consecutive days. A child’s naming ceremony one day. A wedding the next. And then, a sudden offer to repay a centuries-old favour. It doesn’t take a polymath to connect the dots. So, no, I didn’t expect that you’d go and tempt _me_ through all seven sins.”

The bit of thatch that Crowley had been clutching tore loose from its fellows. The demon went tumbling to the ground and landed flat on his back. He groaned, a clump of desiccated straw still in hand. 

Aziraphale’s face was jovial when it popped out from above the eaves of the roof. “Are you all right, dear boy?” 

“I’ve never been better,” Crowley ground out. He propped himself up on his elbows. His head hurt more than the rest of him, because it had begun spinning wildly from the implications of Aziraphale’s admission that he’d orchestrated the entire wager. “Hang on, if you _knew_ , how come you bought that _monstrosity_ from Daeva?” He waved his hands in the vague direction of the prophecy stone, which was still inside the hut.

“Well. Er. I didn’t want to make it that easy for you to win by doing all the easy temptations. Wanted you to feel like you earned it.” Redness crept up the neck of the angel’s poncho, but Crowley wasn’t done yet.

The demon struggled to his feet and walked backwards from the hut. “Earned it? I - Ixtaca the scholar got kidnapped by cultists!” 

“I underestimated your talent for improvisation,” said Aziraphale. 

“Daeva was _this_ close to co-opting my _Reverse Sidonese Prisoner_ strategy and winning the whole shebang!” Crowley sprinted towards the house and launched himself up towards the roof. He managed to grab the wooden frame of the roof, bare where he’d torn the thatch off.

Aziraphale threw his hands up in frustration. “Look, how could I have known _that_ would be how you’d choose to undertake the last two temptations?” 

“Oh, come on,” groaned Crowley. “I’d tried everything else!” He scrabbled at the dried straw on the roof, legs kicking in the air, until he finally managed to scramble to his feet. The demon brushed the loose straw from his cloak, and fixed Aziraphale with a hard stare through his glasses. 

The angel lowered his hands and returned Crowley’s gaze with a newfound steadiness. “You didn’t try everything.” 

Crowley wasn’t intimidated. “No, I definitely did,” he said. “Daeva set your house on fire and bought out your favourite xocoatl shop. Ixtaca took you flower-picking and recited poetry. So of _course_ I had to resort to trickery to win Wrath and Lust.” 

“Resort to trickery,” repeated Aziraphale. Improbably, the angel was once again growing steadily redder and redder in the face. Was it from the heat of the sun? Was it because his neighbours were beginning to stare? 

Crowley didn’t give a shit. “Yeah. Also known as deception. Chicanery. Legerdemain. You should know what it means, though, having set up the entire bet. And then stretched it out!” A thought struck the demon, so absurd that it was barely worth mentioning, but so absurd he _had_ to put words to the idea. “It’s as if you _wanted_ someone to give you the excuse to commit all seven sins.” Crowley doubled over in helpless laughter, and tears pooled at the corner of his eyes. “Even - even -” 

The roof chose that moment to collapse under both of them. The demon plummeted ten feet straight downwards and landed face-first on a hard-packed dirt floor. There was a groan beside him. Crowley turned his face sideways, slowly, and saw that the angel was lying in a rumpled heap of fabric. 

“I apologize for the shoddy state of the roof,” said Aziraphale. He sat up and groaned, pulling bits of dried straw out of his curls. “Are you all right, dear?” 

Crowley rolled onto his back and straightened his glasses, but made no further move to get up. Where once had been a patch of serviceable thatch was now a perfectly round hole in between the roof timbers, opening up to the blue sky. “I’m going to have the builder of this house _sacked_.” 

“Don’t. It’s not his fault.” 

“Then I’m going to have his _children_ sacked. And his children’s children -” 

“And I apologize for meddling in your affairs with Daeva.” 

Crowley’s vow of enmity against the builder’s descendents died upon his lips as he considered the angel’s apology. There wasn’t really much to consider, since his fall through the roof had knocked not only the wind out of him, but his outrage as well. Crowley had won his wager with Daeva after all, hadn’t he? He’d outsmarted the Underduke on his own terms. And despite Aziraphale’s interference, he’d earned every inch of his victory. “I forgive you,” said the demon magnanimously. He pried himself off the ground and into a sitting position beside the angel. 

Aziraphale perked up. “Really?”

Crowley brushed straw out of his hair. “Yeah. Daeva’s out of the way now. Upstairs doesn’t feel so inclined to summon the Horsemen overseas. Tenochtitlan gets a few more good years. Everyone wins.” 

“What did I win, then?” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley tapped the replica prophecy stone leaning against the wall. “You got _that_ priceless, first-edition Aztec prophecy stone, at a bargain price.” 

The angel’s face coloured up again. “Oh. That. I’m not taking it with me. Only bought it to spite you,” he said. “It’d be horribly insensitive to actually keep it. Wouldn't want you to feel awkward if you came over for tea.” 

“I’ve got thicker skin than that,” said Crowley, and he smirked. “Just slap it up between your Egyptian prophecy tablets and Delphian frescoes. It’ll fit right in.” 

“Truly?” 

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “If you’ve got the room to take it with you, anyways.” 

Aziraphale practically wiggled with excitement. “Oh, I’ll _make_ room on my ship.” 

“A ship? But Lake Texcoco doesn’t even connect to the sea.” 

“It doesn’t?” said Aziraphale mildly. “I suppose I’ll deal with the geographical details later. In the meantime - might I trouble you to assist in packing, my dear?” He looked pointedly at the mess around him. Miraculously, none of the angel’s things had broken their fall, but most of them were now covered in dust and bits of dried straw. 

Dread wound around Crowley’s insides yet again, this time at the thought of helping Aziraphale pack. But his traitorous mouth opened and said, “Yeah. I’ll help you.” 

And silently, he added, _you magnificent bastard._


	18. The City of Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the story.

In the end, Crowley summoned two porters and a wooden sledge to take the angel’s research materials, herb samples, and assorted provisions down to the shores of Lake Texcoco. The sledge had corn husks snagged in its slats, and the two porters looked awfully similar to the pair of lummoxes who had that morning stood guard at the palace gardens. Now they stood divested of their obsidian clubs, and wore curious little flat-topped cloth caps instead of helmets.

“Load those up - carefully,” Crowley instructed the two newly-minted porters. 

“Aye, aye,” said the larger of the two men. 

They made quick work stacking Aziraphale’s boxes and trunks and sacks into an unsteady tower on top of the sledge, and securing them with a rope of maguey fibres. Crowley leaned casually against the exterior wall of the hut in a nominally supervisory position. He flipped idly through  _ Blight, Bloodbath, Buboes, and Beacons _ , without really absorbing any of the angel’s dense prose at all. 

Meanwhile, Aziraphale flitted at the porters’ heels with more nervous energy than a beehive full of monkeys and a running commentary of admonitions:  _ “Lift with your knees and not your back, dear fellow,”  _ and  _ “Be careful with that box, it’s fragile,” _ and, most frequently,  _ “Oh, I hope nothing broke.” _ Yet now and then, the angel would glance at Crowley with the most opaque expression. The demon kept his own gaze determinedly fixed on the book, but his skin prickled under Aziraphale’s eyes. 

A horrible thought struck Crowley, and his grip on the tome tightened until he was sure he’d leave finger-shaped dents in the fine leather cover. Did Aziraphale suspect him of being Ixtaca? 

He forced himself not to run screaming from the premises. If Aziraphale had ever suspected the scholar to be Crowley in disguise, he’d certainly surely have mentioned it at some point. He’d certainly have smited Crowley off the face of the Earth in retaliation for the deception. He most certainly would not have planted a kiss -  _ two _ kisses - on Ixtaca. 

Crowley lifted a hand to his lips in grim remembrance. No, the realization that one had fraternized most grievously with an enemy agent was not the sort of epiphany that the angel would keep silent. Aziraphale was probably staring at a smudge of dirt on his face or his cloak, from when they’d both fallen through the roof of the hut. The demon summoned a small wind to blow the last of the debris from his clothes. But that did nothing to dispel the angel’s furtive stares. 

There was nothing Crowley could do but pretend not to notice these looks. And so Aziraphale’s curious dance continued, all while the two men loaded up the contents of the hut onto the vegetable sledge. 

At last, all of the angel’s belongings had been stacked into a veritable tower of Babel, except the prophecy wheel, which still leant against the wall of the hut. The taller guard assumed control of the sledge, and then the shorter one reached for the stone. He groaned as he struggled to right it - it was nearly his height, and at least ten times as heavy. 

Aziraphale tore his eyes from the demon to dart bodily between the man and the stone. “Leave it,” he cried out. 

Crowley rolled his eyes from the doorway and closed his book sharply. “Don’t leave it here on my account.” 

“Not everything is about you, dear boy. I simply don’t trust those two goons in your employ.” Aziraphale nodded at the two men who now stood empty-handed and slack-jawed in front of the hut. 

“They’re members of the royal guard. You couldn’t find better-trained bellhops anywhere else in the city!” 

The angel marched over to stand smartly in front of the larger porter. “You. What’s your name?” he demanded. 

“Er,” said the man. His eyes were slightly glazed. A lone drop of spittle trickled out of the corner of his mouth and onto his chin. 

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley with a withering look. “A bit heavy-handed with the magic, don’t you think?” 

“No big loss. They weren’t great conversationalists to start with. More Crito than Socrates, y’know.” 

The angel’s glare did not subside. “I wouldn’t trust them with a plate of meat pies, let alone a pristine,  _ first edition _ prophecy stone.” 

“Suit yourself,” said Crowley. He tucked the leatherbound book under his arm. 

Tendrils of magic trickled up to strengthen Aziraphale’s arms as he placed two hands on the prophecy stone and righted it from the wall of his hut. Then, he began to roll it very slowly towards the door. 

And so they proceeded down to the docks. The taller guard headed up the procession, dragging behind him the wooden sledge laden with the angel’s trunks and crates. His colleague followed, with an array of leather and burlap bags slung over both shoulders. Aziraphale, Crowley, and the prophecy stone were last in line. First, the prophecy wheel, as tall as a man, rolling as easily as if it were made of wood. Then, the angel, guiding the stone down the path with a steady hand and no small assortment of miracles. And finally, the demon, following the procession at a fair distance, so that a casual onlooker would not associate him with the preceding figures. 

Travelling that far apart, however, meant that the demon’s snipes towards the angel went unheard, so Crowley abandoned his place at the tail of the procession to walk directly beside Aziraphale instead. 

“Why don’t you just send it back to Italy with - you know -” The demon wiggled his fingers at the prophecy stone. 

Perspiration glistened on Aziraphale’s brow as he rolled the stone down the road. “Not across the ocean,” said the angel. “I shan’t chance landing this in the middle of my villa wall.” 

“Then how about a flatter route?” 

“This is the shortest way to the harbour,” said Aziraphale.

“Right,” said Crowley. “Do you need a hand, then?” 

“No,” said Azirphale shortly. “Why don’t you go ask your two bellhops if  _ they _ need a hand?” 

The two palace guards were jogging towards the docks with surprising alacrity, despite being weighed down with all of the angel’s luggage. They were nearly out of sight. “Maybe I will,” said Crowley. But he did not hurry his pace, and continued to match the angel step by step up on the dusty path. 

The path began to slope gently upwards - it was barely a slope at all, but it slowed Aziraphale’s pace to a Sisyphean crawl. The angel dug his sandaled feet into the ground with every step, occasionally slipping in the dust. A tortoise passed the angel on the left with a reptilian sneer. 

“There’s still one thing I haven’t figured out,” said the demon.

“And what’s that?” said Aziraphale, not taking his eyes off the path as he inched the stone upwards. 

“I don’t know what your sin is.” 

Aziraphale came to a dead stop in the middle of the path, and turned to Crowley. His face shone with a mixture of sweat and annoyance. “Pardon me?” 

“You know, like - like,  _ what fruit matches your personality, which Antipope is your soulmate _ . Hence,  _ which sin do you best embody.  _ Pretty standard Downstairs water-cooler talk.” He glanced sideways at the angel. “In case you were curious, I’m an apple, Anastasius Bibliothecarius is my antipapal soulmate, and my sin is Pride.” 

Aziraphale made a noise that sounded like a polite cough, but out of any other persons’ mouth could easily have been interpolated into a huffy  _ no shit _ . 

“- so is Satan’s. And Nyx’s. Most demons’ sins are pride, actually,” said Crowley. He smiled brightly. “How about yours?” 

“I should hope I was a pomegranate,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully. “And I always thought Hippolytus to be a reasonable chap, as antipopes go.” 

That the angel might name Hippolytus was unsurprising, although Crowley did not consider the angel a pomegranate at all, having pegged him more as a persimmon. But those two revelations paled in comparison to the main issue at hand: “But what about your sin?” 

“That question is theological nonsense.” The angel resumed pushing the stone up the path, approaching the crest of the hill. 

“But it  _ can _ be answered using empirical evidence. I’d start by asking which of the seven temptations you enjoyed the most -”

“I didn’t organize the wager, expel Daeva from the city, and take part in a cultist uprising for my own  _ enjoyment _ ,” muttered Aziraphale. “Nor did I do it so you could impugn my virtue.” 

But it was too late for the angel’s protests to deter Crowley. He was on a roll, much as the prophecy stone would be if Aziraphale ever had to guide it downhill. “Probably not Envy or Wrath - Envy’s no fun for anyone, and Wrath’s just not your style. Gluttony and Sloth would be obvious picks -  _ too _ obvious, actually. Nothing wrong with a few recreational meals or, ah, optimizing a logistical  _ arrangement _ or two -” 

“Please stop talking,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley didn’t intend to. He was enjoying himself far too much. “Greed’s a contender - you’ve clearly never heard of travelling light, but on the other hand, nobody’s seen your flaming sword in  _ years.  _ And then there’s Lust -” The demon’s voice faltered, then, but he pushed Ixtaca, the entire Reverse Sidonese Prisoner scheme, and all his qualms to arms length. “- a sin you’ve committed maybe three times in as many millennia -” 

But oh, how the last two instances  _ burned  _ at the forefront of Crowley’s mind, and they burned brightly. The two kisses that Aziraphale had gifted Ixtaca surely constituted damning evidence of Lust. The first like steam hissing on a hot pan, a quick searing heat that singes the skin but leaves no scar. And then the second, like the long slow burn of a rising summer storm whose lightning-strikes kindle wildfires and brand the soul indelibly - 

_ Damn it. _ He’d told himself he would not dwell upon that temptation. The kisses hadn’t even been for him. They’d been for Ixtaca, that twice-damned scholar who didn’t even exist. Crowley would not think about it again. He  _ couldn’t _ think about that again. If he did, it would be all too easy to get tangled up in the sweet impossibilities and turn them sour. And then all of those might-have-beens and never-to-bes would poison the present and twist it into something harsh and thorny and utterly unbearable. 

And Crowley would not risk the present for a never-to-be, so he banished those ruminations to the furthest corner of his mind. 

And not a moment too soon, for Aziraphale had sighed, halted his upwards climb, and turned to the demon. “I’ll tell you what my sin is -” 

“So you did know which one it is!” said Crowley delightedly. 

“- on one condition: that you stop this speculation about sin and temptation and what-have-you. Posthaste.” And then, belatedly: “If you please.” 

Crowley considered the offer. He stuck out his hand to Aziraphale. “Deal,” he said. 

Aziraphale took the demon’s hand and shook it once, before dropping it and returning both hands to the prophecy stone, lest it slip out of his grasp and roll back down the hill. “My sin is Pride,” he said. 

Pride had not been high on Crowley’s list of possibilities: he’d given it eight-to-one odds, at best. But the angel’s admission made a strange sort of sense, in the way one might walk into the rain and realize that their clothes were getting wet, rather than in the way one might be drenched by a bucket falling from a wedged position between a door and its doorframe, as per the third oldest trick in the book. Proud had been the angel’s voice when he’d revealed the orchestration of the wager. Proud were the narrow letters of iron-gall ink in the meticulously cross-referenced footnotes on page sixty-three of  _ Blight, Bloodbath, Buboes, and Beacons _ . Proud was the sweat upon the angel’s brow, and the square of his shoulders, as if he dared the demon to contradict him. 

Crowley did not contradict the angel. Instead, he said, “I knew it,” although he hadn’t actually. 

Aziraphale nodded once at the demon’s acceptance, and then turned his attention back to the prophecy wheel, pressing his hands against the rough grey stone. “Try not to gloat, my dear.” 

“I’m not gloating,” said Crowley. 

“You are,” said Aziraphale. They began moving forwards again, inch by painful inch.

“You’re not even looking at me.” 

“I don’t need to look.” 

“You do know what this means, though?” 

“No, and please don’t enlighten me -”

“We’re a matched set.” A grin spread across the demon’s face. 

“No.” 

“A matched set!” 

“A mere coincidence,” retorted Aziraphale. “You wouldn’t say that the Great Deceiver and I were a matched set, would you?” 

“Even so,” said Crowley breezily. 

The crest of the hill flattened out and then suddenly gave way to a dazzling view of Lake Texcoco below. There were little boats dotted around the harbour, and the wooden causeway stretched out to the mountains in the distance. The two porters that Crowley had summoned were as small as ants at the bottom of the hill. 

“Pride goeth before the Fall,” quoted Crowley, and the wind chose that minute to whip itself up over the crest of the hill, sending the demon’s hair and cloak streaming backwards in the most dramatic fashion since 1229. 

“That’s not actually how the proverb goes,” said angel. “It’s  _ Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall _ .” 

“Close enough,” said Crowley. “But there’s nothing wrong with a good Fall, in the right place, at the right time.” Oh, it’d hurt to land in a lake of boiling sulfur. It’d hurt to drown at the bottom of a waterfall. It’d hurt to fall through the thatch roof of Aziraphale’s hut. It'd hurt every single time. But he could not really say he regretted any of it, knowing what had come afterwards, not when it had all led up to him standing on that mound of dirt that passed for a hill in Tenochtitlan. At his back shone the sun, and on his face blew a lake-fresh breeze, and at his side - 

Crowley glanced at the angel, whose face had fallen in near-comedic disappointment as he beheld the sight of the road stretching gently downhill between squat houses with flat roofs. It was one thing to roll the rock up the hill. It was quite another to roll it back downhill, without losing control of its trajectory. “But now is neither the time or place,” the demon conceded. “So, in the interests of not flattening everybody down there and having to mop it up - need a hand?” 

And this time, Aziraphale looked at him, and nodded. 

##  ∽⧖∼

Together, they eased the prophecy stone down to the docks, where Aziraphale’s ship was anchored.

To call the craft a ship would have been an overstatement. The dinghy was of ancient Egyptian design, with a square, tatty sail mounted on a single mast, a little cabin in the middle, and a single steering oar at the back. The porters loaded Aziraphale’s crates and luggage onto the boat, until there was scarcely any space left on the deck to step. 

Crowley sent the vegetable sledge back to the farmer from whom it had been borrowed with a fingersnap. Then, he lifted the porters’ geases before Aziraphale could make another snippy remark about the ethics of binding humans to his will or the need for a delicate touch, lest he permanently scramble their squishy little brains. 

They looked at each other, and then at Crowley, and then at the little flat-topped caps that now graced their heads. 

“How - how’d we get here?” asked the shorter one. “And why does my back feel like I’ve been plowing all morning?” 

Crowley inserted himself between the two men with collegial familiarity, and slung his free arm over the shorter man’s shoulders. “Pulque’ll do that to you,” he said. 

The taller one’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I haven’t had any today.” 

“You can fix that,” declared the demon, and he slid a pouch of cacao beans into the taller guard’s palm. 

The man’s expression brightened instantly. “Oh. Aye. I can fix that.” He jerked his head at his comrade-in-arms, and the two of them set off for the nearest tavern without a backwards glance. 

That left only the prophecy stone. Once nobody was looking, Aziraphale carefully rolled the stone onto the deck, and began lashing it to the prow and the mast. The dinghy didn’t sink a single inch lower into the water as it took on its heavy cargo, while the angel prattled on about the weather, where he’d bought the boat, and how he was going to resolve the Pope situation. But it wasn’t long before Aziraphale had tied down the last of the trunks to the deck, and he looked reluctantly up at Crowley. 

“I suppose this is it, then,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley had barely been listening to the angel up to that point, instead opting to daydream about the defacement of stucco murals. “What?” he said.

But Aziraphale looked as miserable as if he’d been invited to one of Gabriel’s team-building retreats on the ass-end of the galaxy. “Everything’s all packed up now. So. This is goodbye, isn’t it?” he said, fidgeting with the anchor-rope.

The demon realized with the precipitance of a prophecy stone crashing to the ground that he’d neglected to share a key bit of information with the angel. 

“But you’d be welcome to visit -” 

“I’m not staying,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale’s teatime invitation screeched to a halt, and he gaped at the demon.

“Should’ve mentioned that earlier. Sorry,” said the demon. He made a show of inspecting the deck. “Think there’s room for one more?” 

Crowley had already taken it upon himself to clamber up onto the boat, with  _ Blight, Bloodbath, Buboes, and Beacons  _ still tucked clumsily under one arm, when the angel found his voice again. “You’re not even packed!” 

“I travel light.”

“You love Mexico!” 

“Eh, the human sacrifice gets old after a while,” said Crowley. “You see one beating heart, you’ve seen ‘em all.” 

“And I thought - after everything Daeva and the Horsemen did - nobody’d blame you for staying, Crowley - ” 

The demon set his book down on a crate, laced his fingers in front of him with his palms outwards, and stretched. “That’s all the more reason to go back. To fix the Pope Situation, to clean up after the peasant revolts, et cetera, et cetera.” His voice was light: he’d named the least of Europe’s worries. Many fields that had once been lush with grain now lay fallow with broken arrows and rusting swords. The plague still burned a blackened swathe through the continent. The land would bear the scars of Daeva and the Horsemen’s work for many more years. Maybe even decades. 

But Crowley was over five thousand years old. And  _ years _ and  _ decades _ did not add up to _ forever _ . 

“Yes, but - but -” 

“Then it’s settled,” said Crowley. He rubbed his palms together. “Don’t forget, I’ve got big plans for the fifteenth century.” 

Aziraphale was looking at the demon as if he’d suggested setting the pope’s hat on fire and blaming it on the antipope, or vice-versa, which was actually quite a good idea that Crowley would definitely add to his mental to-do list. “Of course you have plans.” 

“Big plans,” Crowley emphasized, “which may or may not involve flagrant heterodoxies, tasteful acts of vandalism, and advanced mathematics.” He smiled toothily at the angel, and was relieved to see a smile spread slowly across Aziraphale’s face as well, a smile that wiped away the anxious lines around his mouth and replaced it with a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” said the angel. 

A sudden gust of wind interrupted Crowley’s promises to wreak havoc upon the fifteenth century, and filled the sails of Aziraphale’s dinghy. He glanced eastwards, where ripples sparkled across the surface of lake Texcoco. “That’s a good westerly,” he said. “We’d better be off before your boss does another surprise check-in. Not a lot of places for me to hide on this boat.” 

Aziraphale laughed nervously. “Would it be too much to ask you to duck under the waterline, my dear?” 

“Yes,” said Crowley. He untied the rope anchoring the dinghy to the Tenochtitlan dock. 

Meanwhile, the angel fussed with the sails, tightening knots at the mast and the cross-mast. When he was satisfied, he summoned a brisk zephyr to fill the sails. 

The ship jerked once, twice, and then glided smoothly into the lake, sending ducks scrambling out of the way with indignant quacks. 

“Last time we were on a boat together must’ve been during the Flood,” said Crowley. “Remember that?” The ship picked up speed, whipping his hair around his face.

Aziraphale shuddered. “All too well.”

The demon conjured up a dark ribbon of leather, and tied his hair back. “Nothing to drink but cider for forty days and forty nights.” Crowley licked his lips. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any refreshments packed?” 

“This journey will take two weeks at the most. And it happens that I  _ do _ have some local specialties tucked away somewhere - would you hold on to these for me?” Without waiting for Crowley’s response, he pushed his navigational chart into the demon’s arms, and began bustling between the crates loaded at the bow of the ship. 

Crowley unrolled the parchment. It was heavy and well-worn, and far more geographically accurate than any map that the humans had produced to date. In the bottom right corner was stamped in shimmering silver ink:  _ Property of the Celestial Library _ . “There’s still one problem.” 

“What is it, dear boy?”

“Lake Texcoco doesn’t connect to the sea.” The demon looked up over the top edge of the map, to see the far shore of the lake rushing closer and closer. 

“It doesn’t?” said Aziraphale, but there was a spark in his eye. “Let me take a look at that -” 

Crowley passed him the navigational charts, which now sported ornately drawn sea serpents south of Florida, and three-headed bears in Peru. Then, he clung to the doorframe of the dinghy’s pitifully small cabin, bracing himself for impact. 

“So it doesn’t,” conceded Aziraphale. “No matter -” The angel shrugged deliberately. The boat lifted a foot off the surface of the water with a little jerk, just in time to clear the rapidly-approaching sandbanks. 

Crowley peeked over the edge of the boat to see it skimming along the tops of the grass. A herd of deer ran past, their antlers bright in the afternoon sun. Verdant mountains rose up over the distant horizon.

“It’s all smooth sailing from here to the next tributary,” said Aziraphale. He sat cross-legged on the foredeck of the dinghy, map unrolled on top of a large flat-topped trunk. “We’ll follow the river to the Gulf, and then it’ll be a straight shot across the Atlantic.” He looked up at the demon, who had wandered over to poke through the piles of luggage heaped on deck. “Where should I drop you off?” 

Crowley found what he was looking for - two small cups, and a cask of papaya wine. He cooled it with a twist of his hand. “How about the City of Gold?” he said. “I’ve heard some marvelous things about it.” 

“So have I, but only because you pulled that stunt at the palace,” said Aziraphale. “It’s a miracle that Daeva showed up before the king could cotton on. You know the local penalty for that kind of chicanery is  _ death _ , right?” 

“But you  _ have _ heard of it,” said Crowley. He swaggered across the deck of the dinghy to set the two cups and the cask down on the trunk that Aziraphale was using as a table. “What you don’t know is that it’s a real place.” 

Aziraphale rolled up his map. “If you must, my dear,” he said. 

That was more than sufficient impetus for Crowley to forge onwards. He spun the details out from his memory, adding a few key embellishments from his imagination to the recitation. “Imagine, if you will, a city of ivory spires and golden domes. Gardens lush with every tree and flower and fruit imaginable. Cathedrals of stone, carved with sculptures so intricate and so numerous it would take a year to see them all.”

“You exaggerate. I’m not sure they even have that sort of thing Upstairs,” said Aziraphale. 

“This city will be far too decadent for the likes of Upstairs,” said Crowley. “Instead of archangels with their swords stuck in their asses, imagine plazas of scholars and artists. Dancers clad in silk, and warriors in silver. And gold, of course. Gold coins, heavy in the pockets of every man, woman, and child. Gold gilt sparkling on the spines of a hundred thousand books, lining university halls and library shelves. Golden fields of grain in the countryside, so thick and lush that Famine himself could not lay them all to waste.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes had gone misty. “The fact remains that such a city doesn’t exist yet.” 

“Doesn’t it?” said Crowley innocently. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to build it wherever I come ashore.” 

Aziraphale’s eyebrows jerked upwards. “Build it?” 

“Yes,” said Crowley. “It’ll be grand. I might even let you visit, if you ask nicely.” 

“Perhaps - where were you planning to put it?” The angel broke the seal on the cask, and began to fill the two cups with a rosy gold wine.

“Venice, maybe. Or Paris. Heard London’s nice.” 

“Not at this time of year,” sniffed Aziraphale. “I’d suggest you start with Rome.” He set the cask back down on the table, and pushed one cup towards the demon. 

“Rome,” mused Crowley. “That could work. Two thousand years of architectural foundation, more marble quarries than you can shake a leg at, and the pope -” he looked up at the angel. “Hang on,  _ you’re _ going to Rome!” 

Aziraphale’s laugh sounded like all the bells in a cathedral chiming at once. “What a coincidence,” he said, and lifted a cup. “A toast, then, to the City of Gold.” 

Crowley didn’t return Aziraphale’s toast right away. Instead, he let the angel’s lifted cup linger in the air a moment longer than necessary, while he took in everything around him. The dry breeze, rippling through the dinghy’s sails and the tall grass on the plateau. The sun, warm against his back. And the mirth in the angel’s eyes, the playful curve of his mouth, the bright anticipatory flush in his cheeks. 

All instantly branded themselves with indelible, white-hot clarity in the demon’s memory, as surely as if a lightning bolt had fallen from the clear sky right at that instant and struck him in the heart. And how could they not have? For the first time in a century, the future seemed unshadowed by the past. For the first time in a century, Crowley felt certain that he was in the right place, at the right time, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about whether or not it was foolish to embark on a transatlantic voyage on a dinghy of questionable construction with his hereditary enemy. For the first time in a century, everything finally felt  _ right _ . 

That was worth a toast. 

“To the City of Gold,” echoed Crowley. He clinked his own cup of wine against the angel’s, lifted it to his lips, and drank deeply of the sweetness within and without. 

And that was how they sailed across the sea of grass: with the west wind in their sails, with hope brimming in their cups, with the sunlight threaded gold through the angel’s hair. 

**∽⧗∼ ∽⧖∼**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! That was the last chapter of The Seven Temptations of Aziraphale. Here I would like to offer one last thanks to GraphiteGirl for betaing this story - hope your work lightens up soon - and a big pile of gratitude to SilchasRuin for helping with all my last-minute story emergencies. 
> 
> Finally, I'd also like to thank everyone who gave CC, commented, or left kudos, or even just made it to the end of this story! This started out as a 20k word story but clearly didn't end that way, even after I'd been struck by writer's block at least three separate times during the latter half of the fic. 
> 
> I'll have one more update to this story to address Crowley's character arc and general historical inaccuracies in this story. After that, I'll be working on the next installment of this series, yet another standalone story, likely set during the sixth crusade. Currently hope to post it in October - fingers crossed!


	19. Author's Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not actually part of the story!

Welcome to the author’s notes! It contains some notes on the historical context of fourteenth century Europe and Tenochtitlan, and then some rambling thoughts about Aziraphale and Crowley’s character. 

### Historical Notes

#### Fourteenth Century Europe

On the subject of why Crowley disliked the fourteenth century, Neil Gaiman [ tweeted ](https://twitter.com/neilhimself/status/629801259646717952?lang=en) that “too many popes” was one of the reasons. He also [ blogged ](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/185922150111/hi-quick-question-from-a-medievalist-about) that both he and Terry Pratchett had read and loved _A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous Fourteenth Century_ by Barbara Tuchmann. So I read it too. It’s fine, I guess. Definitely really _thorough,_ if you get my drift. I was mostly interested in the handful of chapters summarizing the extrinsic factors leading to that snarled bit of history. Give it a read if you want a really detailed look at the sociopolitical conditions that turned the latter half of the fourteenth century to a complete clusterfuck. 

##### Famine, War, Pestilence, Death, and Popes

The fourteenth century in Europe started off on a bright note, following centuries of relative prosperity and growth during the High Middle Ages. Unfortunately, that was not meant to be. A spate of cold weather in the winter of 1315 started off the Great Famine. Winters were extremely cold, and summers were wet. Even after the end of the period of bad weather, there was insufficient seed grain left to sow fields or rebuild herds of livestock. Overall, it is estimated that approximately 10% of the European population perished due to the famine. 

Meanwhile, the Black Death came on the heels of the Great Famine in 1347, further thinning a weakened population. It arrived by Genoan cargo ship crewed by the dead and dying in Messina, Sicily, and spread through the rest of Europe via trade routes over the next five years. Intermittent outbreaks of Plague would pop up every year until the 1600s. Overall, the Black Death killed anywhere between a third to half the European population. 

_Citizens of Tournai bury plague victims._

And finally, there were the wars. There were a _lot_ of wars in the fourteenth century, the most famous of which was the Hundred Years’ War between the English and the French. It’s not called the Hundred Years’ War in the fic, though - the war took place in several phases, the first of which was the Edwardian War, precipitated by a successional dispute of the Duchy of Aquitaine between the English and French thrones. Ironically, the Edwardian phase only ended upon the onset of the Black Death, which put most wartime activities on hold until tax troubles in Aquitaine led to the second phase of the war. Other conflicts of note included several dozen peasant revolts spurred on by increased rents levied by landlords for fear of a decline of their own standard of living, despite the fact that the common folk had been absolutely hammered by the famine and plague in decades prior.

##### Too Many Popes

Finally, as Gaiman notes, there were “too many popes” at the end of the fourteenth century, due to an awkward situation referred to as the Western Schism. See, popes reigned not from Vatican City, but from Avignon (now modern-day France) during the bulk of the fourteenth century to escape infighting between Roman families. Seven French popes all reigned from Avignon under the influence of the French crown. You can imagine that this displeased the Italian nobility. Finally the seventh of the Avignon popes, Gregory XI, eventually caved to Catherine of Siena’s requests to return the papacy to Rome. 

_Gregory XI returns to Rome, as painted by Giorgio Vasar._

Well, Pope Gregory XI died mere months after arriving in Rome in 1378. And lo and behold, an Italian pope was elected: Pope Urban VI. The cardinals almost immediately regretted their decisions, as Urban VI proved to be paranoid and violent. Some of the French cardinals fled back to Avignon, where they elected Clement VII in antipapal opposition to Urban VI. This conflict escalated into a continent-wide diplomatic crisis that would not be resolved until 1429, upon the resignation of the last antipope in Avignon. 

##### The Renaissance

Aziraphale isn’t wrong - the multiple disasters of the fourteenth century did pave the way for the European Renaissance to emerge in Italy. The Black Death hit Italy particularly hard, halving the population. Prices of food and land dropped. This was a windfall for the working man and woman, who had more resources to go around, and sometimes inherited property from their dead relatives. Labour shortages also led to higher wages for workers. This paved the way for the last of the serfs to purchase their freedom, and for a new merchant class to emerge in Italy, one that could afford fine things from new Asian trade routes, indulge in scholasticism, and develop an appreciation for the fine arts. A time of unprecedented social mobility and individualism dawned in Italy, to slowly spread across the rest of Europe during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

Religious fanaticism also peaked following the arrival of the Black Death, where many believed that the plague was punishment for their wickedness and immortality. Many monks and priests died, and replacements were hastily trained, though not quite up to the moral standards of their predecessors. Papal authority which had peaked during the Crusades of the High Middle Ages began to crumble. Leadership was further thrown into doubt with the emergence of an Antipope in Avignon. In any case, Church influence faded after an initial wave of devoutness. The cultural zeitgeist of the continent began moving towards classical epicurean ideals and a complementary secular education, both of which were ideal fodder for the emergence of a new age of scientific thought in Europe. 

_“The School of Athens,” by Rafaello Sanzio da Urbino. Rediscovery of the Greek and Roman classics fuelled a newfound Renaissance scholasticism._

#### Tenochtitlan, 1378 A.D.

The city of Tenochtitlan was founded in roughly 1325, on an island on brackish Lake Texcoco, surrounded by plateau and mountains. This site was chosen to fulfil a prophecy, where a great city was prophesied to rise at a site signaled by an eagle with a snake in its beak, perched on a cactus. 

During the time of _The Seven Temptations of Aziraphale_ , the Aztec empire had not yet been consolidated through alliances between the cities of Tenochtitlan, Texcoco and Tlacopan, yet seeds of diplomacy were already being sown. The second king of Tenochtitlan, Huitzilihuitl, was known as a diplomatic politician who sought alliances with his neighbours and supported the weaving industry. 

The population of the city is estimated to be about 100,000 to 200,000 at the start of the 1400s, increasing to between 200,000 and 300,000 by the arrival of Cortes in 1519. For reference, Paris was the largest city at the end of the fourteenth century, and had a population of about 300,000. Tenochtitlan would’ve had a population comparable to Prague, Venice, or Milan. 

_The environs of Lake Texcoco. Look at those mountains! Those causeways! And how no water actually flows out of the lake!_

Wooden bridges and bridges were constructed to link Tenochtitlan to the mainland, but the main mode of transportation was by dugout canoe. As the city expanded, chinampas (floating gardens) were constructed to support the population. Floating gardens were not as glamorous as they sounded, however: they did not float, being constructed of underwater reed fences, and then built up with soil. They were also quite utilitarian in nature, being used to grow food crops rather than ornamental plants. However, the gardens of the royal palace were said to contain multitudes of flowers and trees, alongside multiple ponds of fresh and salt water. 

_A map of Tenochtitlan._

Other points of interest in Tenochtitlan were the Great Temple and the great market at Tlatelco. 

The Great Temple, also known as Templo Mayor, was a twin shrine to the god of war and the god of rain on top of a stepped pyramid. Built in 1325 and expanded six times, the Great Temple was the site of coronations, funerals, and human sacrifices. Daeva and Crowley sign the Terms and Conditions of their wager on the second iteration of the temple. 

The market at Tlatelco was located at the north end of Tenochtitlan. One could buy near anything at the market: slaves, jewelry, cotton cloth, wild animals, and pottery, to name a few. It is estimated that between 20,000 and 40,000 people would visit the market on any given day, with even more on special market days. Goods were bartered for other goods, or for cacao seeds. A rabbit was worth ten cacao beans, while a slave was worth a hundred. Occasionally a tajadero (a small copper hoe) worth 8,000 cacao seeds would be used in transactions. 

_A tajadero._

##### Theatre

I took some extensive liberties writing Tozi and her troupe. Aztecs did have strong musical and dance traditions, rooted in sacred traditions, epic storytelling, and even the mundanities of everyday life. However, I could not find any evidence that there were ever any formalized acting troupes. 

##### Clothing

I imagine that both Crowley and Aziraphale wore something similar to #6 and #2 in this photo, respectively - though with longer kilts. 

_Aztec clothing._

##### Quetzalcoatl

The feathered serpent deity predates Aztec culture, having first been worshipped by the Olmecs, the Mayans, and the Toltec. He was known to the Aztecs as Quetzalcoatl, the god of wind and scholarship. 

_Quetzalcoatl as depicted in the Codex Borbonicus._

Quetzalcoatl was also believed to have created the “fifth age” of the world, following the destruction of the previous ages by earthquake, jaguars, floods, hurricanes, and fiery rains. One day, the fifth era would also end. To delay that end, they engaged in human sacrifice for the gods to aid them in their battles against the oncoming darkness. Unlike other gods, Quetzalcoatl was never offered human victims - only snakes, birds, and butterflies. 

Legend describes that Quetzalcoatl was banished from Mexico after drunkenly cavorting with his older sister. In the story, I revised Quetzalcoatl’s disappearance to coincide with his defeat at the hands of the war god Huitzilopochtili on the basis of their opposing views on human sacrifice. In any case, Quetzalcoatl was prophesied to one day return before the end of the fifth age. 

Sadly Cortes arrived on the shores of Mexico during that fated year, and used the auspicious date of his arrival to his advantage in diplomatic dealings with Montezuma II. Emperor Monctezuma II is said to have mistaken Cortes for Quetzalcoatl during the Spanish conquest, though modern historians now believe that version of events to be a combination of mistranslation and Christianization. 

However, doomsday cults are a fabrication developed for this story, because I have always wanted to rip off that scene from _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. 

The “prophecy stone” is also a complete fabrication, though aesthetically based on the Aztec sun stone. This 3-metre diameter sculpture dates to the sixteenth century, and is decorated with symbols that represent months of the solar calendar. It is thought to serve as a monument to the different eras of the world. 

_This stone weighed over fifty thousand pounds._

### Story Development

I started this story thinking that I wanted to have Crowley visit in Mexico for holiday as he did at the end of _Once More with Pharaohs_ , that he’d try and con Aziraphale into _something_ , and that Aziraphale would be aware of the con - but that he’d play along, so that the demon would end up hoisted by his own petard. 

Other story elements fell very slowly into place after that. I set the story in the fourteenth century so that I could address the traumas of the late medieval period without needing to wallow around in the wreckage for too long. Daeva emerged as a manifestation of the most lonely, nihilistic, and violent aspects of grief. And since Aziraphale had already made multiple visits Upstairs in _Once More with Pharaohs_ , Nyx and Bob were brought in to round out the demonic cast and facilitate Crowley’s visits downstairs. 

_Jim McCarthy’s concept art of Hell._

#### Crowley’s Character Arc

I made a conscious effort to pattern Crowley’s character arc in this story to the Heroine’s Journey, lest I end up halfway through the story again with nowhere to go. Further details about the Heroine’s Journey can be found in the [ Author’s Note ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428025/chapters/54937051) of my other story, _Once More with Pharaohs_. 

There are nine stages of the Heroine’s Journey: 

  1. Act I: Containment
    1. The Illusion of a Perfect World
    2. The Betrayal or Realization
    3. The Awakening 
  2. Act II: Transformation
    1. The Descent 
    2. The Eye of the Storm
    3. Death
  3. Act III: Emergence
    1. Support
    2. Rebirth
    3. The Return to the Perfect World



In Act One, Crowley is living in **the Illusion of a Perfect World,** having escaped the exhaustion of fourteenth-century Europe to holiday semi-indefinitely in Mexico, a region whose delights he’s enjoyed on numerous occasions in the past. His coping mechanism is to drink crappy beer, refuse to think about Daeva, avoid Aziraphale, and pull petty confidence tricks on the local aristocracy. 

This is followed swiftly by **the Realization** that he has not quite managed to outrun Daeva or the Horsemen - Daeva is already there in Tenochtitlan, having taken up residence in the city to stir up the most bloodthirsty instincts of the local populace. And the archangels are _this_ close to calling down the Horsemen to put a kibosh on that sort of behaviour. Crowley’s coping mechanisms can’t unseat Daeva or save Tenochtitlan from premature ruin. 

So, by the end of Chapter 1, he undergoes the **Awakening**. He cannot run from Daeva forever, not when she’s hell-bent on extracting his spine from his body to teach him a lesson. He makes an on-the-spot wager with Daeva, which she accepts, though not without whipping out the standard Terms and Conditions. Crowley remains confident that he’ll be able to win the bet in no time and remove the looming threat of the Horsemen from Tenochtitlan, using his wits alone. 

Thus follows Act 2, starting with Crowley’s **Descent** into the seven temptations. The descent is about shedding the tools and coping mechanisms that the protagonist has used to keep their fears and insecurities at bay, and instead, confronting them head-on. In _7ToA_ , Crowley uses his old tricks to attempt to inspire Gluttony and Sloth in Aziraphale - first by just taking the angel to a wedding, and then by going on a flower-collecting errand. Neither works, because the fourteenth century also has Aziraphale rather distracted. Crowley is only able to succeed in inspiring the first two temptations when he speaks about his own experiences with Famine and War, thus shedding the layers of denial he’s put between himself and the beacons that Daeva lit. 

And it works - opening up to Aziraphale helps more to win temptations than children’s birthday parties or flower-picking ever did. Crowley finds momentary peace in the **Eye of the Storm** when they spend a night skipping stones on Lake Texcoco. And why not? He’s three days into the bet and he’s half won already, whereas Daeva is absolutely nowhere to be seen. 

But that peace does not last. A fracture appears during Crowley’s attempt to inspire Greed in Aziraphale. Daeva visited the angel earlier, and ticked the boxes on Envy, Greed, and Pride in one fell stroke. And then the peace is shattered completely during Crowley’s last-ditch effort to inspire Wrath: property destruction, insults, and even the admission that he’d brought Pestilence to Europe only prompt Aziraphale to make him a soothing cup of tea, rather than to strike him down for his perceived crimes. Crowley’s failure to have tempted the angel into Wrath sends him straight into the **Death** phase of the character arc, in which he goes on a multi-day bender on the side of a causeway. He accepts that it’s a matter of time before Daeva wins the bet, and he’d rather not be sober when he’s yanked back down to Hell. 

But when Crowley wakes up, he realizes he _hasn’t_ actually lost the wager yet. Still in the Death phase, still unable to actually go to Aziraphale and inspire the two remaining sins, or even to go and ask for help. So he goes in the guise of Ixtaca, instead. 

In many ways, being Ixtaca is easier than being Crowley, being personally unburdened by the sins of the fourteenth century, and having a clear scholastic inroad to Aziraphale’s heart. All the while, Aziraphale is serving as **Support** to try and lift Crowley’s spirits, vis-a-vis his apparent minion, Ixtaca. But Crowley doesn’t bite. See, the protagonist’s support can’t go and solve their problems for them. Only Crowley can solve his own problems, and he’s more inclined to impersonate a scholar than confront Daeva head-on. And so, Ixtaca and Aziraphale get absolutely nothing done. 

In fact, Crowley doesn’t even make progress until he’s been kidnapped by Daeva’s cultists and packed into a rug. The Ixtaca persona is of no help in the dark. All Crowley has left are his own memories and observations. And he observes that perhaps Daeva is no more confident of winning the wager than he is. Perhaps he was closer to victory than he’d feared. And that perhaps Aziraphale was _right,_ in that it’s not quite curtains for Europe just yet. 

So when the cultists unload Crowley out of the rug, it is his **Rebirth.** He’s faced his greatest fear-du-jour - that Daeva might win the wager - and come out of it believing that he still has a fighting chance. So Daeva does not hold the same menace for him as she used to, and Crowley giddily delivers all the snarky one-liners he’d repressed for the last century. He spends no time at all wallowing in the bottom of the cage, opting instead for an impromptu peasant uprising. He pursues Daeva through the tunnels of the summer palace alone. And, despite already knowing what awaits him at the bottom of the waterfall, he leaps fearlessly in, taking Daeva down with him. 

The Rebirth culminates with classical aquatic imagery, wherein Aziraphale drags Crowley’s soggy ass out of the water and resuscitates him. And it is there that Crowley wins, having finally escaped Daeva’s long shadows. 

So now Crowley has learned that the fourteenth century did not toll the end times for Europe. He’s learned that Daeva is not quite so frightening as she appears. So what is left after winning, but to **Return to the Perfect World** and share what he’s learned with the rest of the world? He makes a few quick errands to revisit old haunts. The cultists reject Crowley’s help, so the demon foists upon them a practical lesson - the end times aren’t coming anytime soon. Tozi’s already sort of felt the removal of Daeva’s influence from the city, and plans to write some more comedic plays with her newfound inspiration. Finally, the Recorporation Office is the last target of Crowley’s minor errands. Neither Nyx nor Bob hold much fear for Daeva anymore, since she’d been soundly trounced by Crowley during the course of the wager. As for the Underduke herself - he drops Daeva some semi-sarcastic life advice about perhaps going on a long hike to the far edge of the galaxy to overcome her old grief for Taxila and Kesh. And perhaps it might nearly work - after all, a short holiday to Tenochtitlan helped Crowley straighten out his head afterwards. 

And having accomplished that - what is left but to reunite with Aziraphale, and go home? It won’t be easy, of course. The scars of War, Famine, and Pestilence stretch across the continent. And there are still too many Popes. But now Crowley is back in the game, ready to make his own mark across the Renaissance. 

#### Aziraphale’s Sin

Okay so in the movie _Serenity_ (2005), the Operator asks various characters, “Do you know what your sin is?” And it was just such an iconic quote to little teenage me that I borrowed it for this fic. 

It’s absolutely clear that Crowley’s sin is Pride. Nothing else even comes close. But it’s not immediately clear what Aziraphale’s greatest sin is. A case could be made for each of Greed, Sloth, and even Lust. After all, Aziraphale maneuvered the demons’ entire wager into what was essentially a roundabout plot to get laid. 

However, Aziraphale does nothing of that sort in canon, though he dabbles in all sorts of questionable behaviour - day-drinking in the bookshop (Sloth), murdering deviled eggs in the British Museum cafeteria (Gluttony), lying to Shadwell about how many nipples the Antichrist possesses (Sloth), underpaying the Witchfinder Army (most likely too slothful to check the rate of inflation)... the list goes on and on. Yet his most “sinful” actions are absolutely motivated by Pride, as observed by the following seven pieces of evidence: 

  1. He gives Adam the flaming sword. What is Pride but to think one’s own judgement is better than whatever celestial directive dictates that you don’t go handing out divine weaponry to homeless people? And afterwards, who would just tell God a bald-faced lie about having “put it down somewhere, forget my own head next” unless they were sufficiently possessed of pride? 
  2. Crowley complains that Warlock is “too bloody _normal,_ ” and Aziraphale immediately claims credit due to his angelic good influence. He is dead wrong, as the rest of the novel will go on to prove. 
  3. On the Eleventh birthday party: “Aziraphale was particularly proud of his magical skills.” Said magical skills are mediocre at best. 
  4. During the paintball incident: “Angels had certain moral standards to maintain, and so, unlike Crowley, he preferred to buy his clothes rather than wish them into being from raw firmament.” The text says “moral standards,” I say “textbook better-than-thou snobbery.” Hence, pride. 
  5. In the bookstore: “Aziraphale was the first angel ever to own a computer. It was a cheap, slow, plasticky one, much touted as ideal for the small businessman. Aziraphale used it religiously for doing his accounts, which were so scrupulously accurate that the tax authorities had inspected him five times in the deep belief that he was getting away with murder somewhere.” You _know_ he plunks at the keyboard pointedly whenever Crowley is around, just to rub it in that the demon doesn’t know how to turn his own machine on the normal way. 
  6. Madame Tracy's mouth opened, and a voice said, "Not just A Southern Pansy, Sergeant Shadwell. THE Southern Pansy." That little display of theatrics can be attributed to nothing but Pride. 
  7. At the airfield, Aziraphale stands in front of representatives of Heaven and Hell and speaks to remind them of the _ineffability_ of the Plan when even Crowley and Adam have given up. Later, he prompts Crowley to abandon plans to flee in the jeep, and stand alongside the humans at the apparent end of the world. Angels have literally _fallen_ for lesser sins of Pride! 



I haven’t thought too hard about what other sins might run rampant amongst the heavenly host. Gabriel and Sandalphonl’s might be Wrath (the former seems awfully eager to get down to the martial aspects of Armageddon, while the latter is directly implicated in the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah), and Metatron’s Pride (I’m of the opinion that only editors, the Queen, and pregnant people can refer to themselves as “we.”) 

And all this discussion of sin still leaves the question of which _Virtue_ best embody Crowley and Aziraphale. I think a good argument could be made for any of Charity, Patience, and Kindness, but the final judgement will be left an exercise to the reader :) 


End file.
